


Bats of Arkham

by PseudoCerberus



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce Wayne Has a Bad Day, Bruce Wayne and John Doe eventual romance, Bruce Wayne and John Doe friendship in Arkham, Bruce Wayne has bats on the brain, Bruce Wayne locked in Arkham Asylum, M/M, Mental Health Patient Bruce Wayne, Multi, Other, psychotic Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoCerberus/pseuds/PseudoCerberus
Summary: He did it. He accepted he did. But he isn’t mad?Locked inside Arkham Asylum, Bruce has blood on his hands. Not a last resort or noble intervention, but a fit of lunacy. While doctors whisper psychosis, Bruce talks of drugs, conspiracy and corruption. Someone has got what they wanted and soon the whole of Gotham will know he is Batman. He is a patient again. Trapped within an institution that was once his father’s castle and means to destroy lives. John Doe his only ally. Together, can they solve the mystery?
Relationships: Harvey Dent/Bruce Wayne, John Doe/Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 26
Kudos: 31





	1. The Wayne Arkham Connection

The Batmobile zoomed drunkenly past the gate and slid into the cave. Before the armoured sides had a chance to roll over the rock’s edge, the mechanical floor gripped the car with a _clunk_ , aligning the tires. A man dressed in black — horns protruding — fell from the vehicle. Batman staggered like he had a devil on his back. One hand clasped to his side as he bent double. His armour was so dark it was hard to see, but a deep red was dripping from under his hand and onto the gleaming silver of the floor. He let out a rasping cry as he tried to stand upright.

_“RING! RING! RING!”_

The Batcomputer brought the outside camera up on screen. Selina Kyle was at the manor gates, her finger franticly pressing the intercom. He lifted a shaking hand to the console.

 _‘Bruce!_ Let me help you.’ 

He let her in. The gates slid open and he staggered out the gloom and into walls lined with walnut. A warm light twinkled down from the chandelier, making Bruce reel backwards. He wanted to shut his eyes. Always a bad sign. He made himself step after heavy step and unlocked the front door. Then collapsed. The hall had lost its clarity. He saw everything like an unfocused camera, light fizzing at the edges of all the familiar objects around him.

Selina was knelt beside him. ‘You can’t keep doing this!’ Her voice sounded panicked. She began tugging at his armour. _‘I can’t_ keep doing this,’ she moaned, shaking her head. 

Batman’s guttural voice spoke: ‘and you shouldn’t have to!’ He took off his cowl and the sound rose an octave as the softer voice of Bruce Wayne finished: ‘Alfred should be here.’

He did his best to help her undo his chest piece. Trying not to groan as the kevlar slid over his wound. 

‘Have you heard anything?’ she asked, clearing the wound of dirt and fragments of his suit.

Bruce replied dimly, ‘no.’

‘Brace yourself,’ Selina took a bottle out of the kit she had beside her and poured it over the slash in his side. Alcohol flared his nostrils and the room lit up like a firework. He heard his head hit the floor. Selina yelling _‘Bruce!’_ was the last thing he remembered.

When he opened his eyes again it was morning.

He felt like he had been run over by a tank. Make that a fleet of tanks. Even the joints of his toes hurt. Bruce looked down at the left side of his torso and measured the run of stitches with his thumb and forefinger. The wound was a child’s hand width. Selina had made a decent job, Alfred would have made better, but without her who knows where he would be right now. Hugging his mother at the pearly gates or greeting his father in hell? Bruce chuckled disquietingly.

‘Oh good. You’re awake. I thought you might have died.’ Selina appeared holding up a brown paper bag and two coffees. ‘Got these in case you didn’t.’ She placed an egg and bacon muffin in front of him. ‘You have nothing in your cupboards except sardines, you know? For a billionaire that’s pretty rich.’

He took the coffee she held out to him. Last night she must have wrestled his bulk onto one of the couches in the sitting room. The hard leather of the chesterfield was never comfortable, but she had lined it with every cushion she could find and he had a tablecloth crumpled around his legs like a blanket.

Gratefully he reached for the muffin and bit into it. Egg oozed a little at the sides of his mouth and he quickly licked all traces up. He could’ve eaten a canteen worth of muffins he was so hungry. So absorbed in his breakfast, he was only vaguely aware of the TV Selina had switched on. 

‘Bruce,’ her tone was unsettling, ‘I think you need to see this.’

He looked across the room at the screen. They were covering a book release like it was major news. Bruce stared, disgruntled. Cecile Horton – someone he had to buy off big time to leave him and his company alone after leading a witch hunt on anything remotely associated with Thomas Wayne – was sat looking presidential and holding a book like it was the bible. Bruce continued to stare, a feeling of deep unease creeping down his neck.

_“The Wayne Arkham Connection: this is your latest book exploring the clandestine operations of Thomas Wayne while serving as a doctor at Arkham Asylum? His power over people and – as we all know – the misuse of it?”_

Cecile Horton responded: _“Yes. I feel I owe it to Gotham and the families the Wayne’s have torn apart. The people need full disclosure on the individuals and their deeds that made – make – this city what it is today. How Gotham’s golden age was built on the back of crime, and suffering, the abuse of power, and on the careful manipulation of public image.”_

_“Powerful words, Miss Horton. Thomas is in the past, but this book really looks at the legacy of the Wayne’s too. How their present fortune cannot be separated from the crime that amassed it. You focus on Bruce Wayne, his tragedy, his upbringing, his privilege – how did growing up with a crime lord affect him? Was Thomas a loving father or an abusive tyrant? Another victim or an unlawful prince: does Bruce Wayne still owe the people of this city? We’re keen to know your thoughts.”_

Expressionless Bruce turned to Selina and then back to the television. Another story flashed up.

 _“Is this the price of vigilantism?”_ The screen was suddenly lit with security footage of last night’s failure in Gotham Museum. Batman came into shot, chasing two masked figures dressed all in black. They looked like a cross between fencers and ninjas, jumping up onto glass cabinets like acrobats. They taunted him, ducking and weaving, throwing what they had stolen just out of reach to one another. Then, he tried to be clever. He lost his footing and fell. Bruce winced automatically, holding his side as the Batman on screen fell like a man overboard onto the spear held by Lady Justice. For non-Gothemites, Lady Justice looked like any other statue, but for the people of Gotham this particular figure meant a great deal. It was one of those icons a city has that defines its character. A face of Gotham itself — and last night — playing at this moment on the TV — he fell upon her, smashing the scales from her hand and breaking the tip of her mighty spear off, now embedded in his side as he fell hard onto the floor. The Batman on TV writhed, pulling the blade free and tossing it aside. The museum footage ended and they began pressing people for their opinion. One priest thought it was an omen prophesizing Batman’s end, another person said it was nothing short of, _“vandalism across Gotham’s very soul,”_ and that the police ought to have locked up Batman a very long time ago. 

Bruce shook his head. ‘What. The. Hell?’ He leaned back and Selina switched the TV off. He chuckled uncontrollably. ‘Great! They’ve gunned for Bruce Wayne and they’ve gunned for Batman, but they’ve never gunned for both at once!’

‘Bruce,’ Selina spoke like they’d just seen Batman die, ‘that was a lot of blood. Did you get all of it?’

He was thinking the same thing. ‘Not as much as I should have,’ he answered wearily.

‘Will Gordan?’

God he hoped so. His identity was on the tip of that spear, but — instead of dwelling on the seriousness of the issue — he yawned. His body was telling him to sleep. Selina took note.

‘Alright,’ she took the coffee away and replaced it with a glass of water. ‘Your boo-boos have been stitched. I’ll check up on you later.’ She zipped up the leather jacket she was wearing. ‘Just remember I won’t be around indefinitely. You’re lucky I am between jobs.’

The irony that he’d been chasing down a thief while being injured, and then stitched up by a different thief was not lost on him. Selina and him had a truce. Hell, Selina and him were friends. And, when everyone had either deserted him, died, been locked up, or simply had enough of his emotional distance, it was Selina who actually had his back. Bruce smiled a small cynical smile and Selina leaned forward and gave his forehead a quick peck with her lips. ‘Give the boo-boo a chance to heal.’ 

‘Today only. Tomorrow it’s John and that awful gala —,’ he failed at stifling a yawn, ‘with those awful people. Or maybe I am the only truly awful one. The media certainly thinks so.’

‘Cancel. Resting is more important.’

‘I can’t. Regina will never let me hear the end of it.’

‘Cancel John at least.’

Bruce looked pained. ‘I can’t do that either.’

‘Why not?’

‘He…I can’t disappoint him. He’s trying, Selina. He’s really trying.’ Bruce looked miserably at the plaster ceiling above. ‘I think he’s trying because of me. Dr Leland said that first visit made all the difference.’

Selina shrugged, her voice indifferent. ‘Okay. Do what you want.’ 

Bruce knew she thought him foolish. ‘Are you coming to the gala?’ he asked carefully.

‘Depends. Can I rob some stupid rich people?’

‘No.’

‘Nah.’ Selina smiled. ‘I think I’ll swing by Gotham Museum and have a piece of whatever those ninjas were into.’

Bruce just looked at her.

Selina switched the heel she was leant on, the curve of her hips leaning more to the right. ‘You might see me… _after_ the party.’ She jangled her keys and fished for her motorcycle helmet. ‘Don’t forget to feed Samson.’ The flea-bitten ginger tom suddenly emerged from behind the curtain at the sound of his name and meowed. His ears were nibbled at the outer edges and his nose was almost split in two were a claw had torn. Selina thought Bruce needed company, and Selina’s idea of company — Samson jumped and landed like a sack of sugar on Bruce’s chest. 

‘Ahh!’ he grimaced, tentatively trying to move the cat that had begun rubbing its head furiously on his chin. Purring.

‘Trust you two to get along. Both antisocial. Both battle-worn. Both like gravlax.’ Selina batted her long eyelashes.

‘And both are heavier than they look. Come on Samson.’ Bruce’s wide hands succeeded in coaxing the cat downwards. The tom spun twice and settled in a puddle of fur and muscle on Bruce’s feet, brandishing a paw to be licked into a shiny, orange mitten.

‘Rest!’ Selina called from out the room. The front door shut with a click and he knew she was gone. 

Bruce yawned while yawning, opening his mouth wide like a dog and the next thing he knew it was dark outside and the grandfather clock was nearing 3am. 

***

He had slept nearly fourteen hours and it still wasn’t enough. And now, as promised, he was clipping down the halls of Arkham with Dr Leland. He caught her looking at him from the side. Her habit of using her peripheral vision like a spy always gave Bruce the impression she was trying to work him out, and maybe scribbling conclusions in her mind that said Bruce Wayne wasn’t as right or as stable as he made out. That there was more to his incarceration than Lady Arkham’s drug. He didn’t like it.

Bruce held himself a little too stiffly and then winced with a groan. Stopping in the corridor — doubling over like he was going to be sick.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked, alarmed. Reaching her hands to steady him, she noticed his own clasped to his left side.

‘Yeah,’ he huffed and made himself straighten. Her eyes lingered on his torso. He made himself continue up the corridor. She followed, taking fewer steps to keep in line with his sluggish gait.

‘It is good of you to continue to visit John,’ she said generously. ‘Things were very confused for him and he felt a lot of resentment towards the Batman. I don’t know how you were mixed up in it all…but the fact you didn’t abandon him has meant more than I can express.’ She caught his eye. ‘He has more faith in people generally. And that is saying something.’

He didn’t reply, digesting what she had said instead. It was good John was trying. It was good John thought people were worth trying for. He just hoped no one threw John’s effort back in his face. It was harder to encourage John than discourage John. It didn’t take much to knock him into a dark place – Bruce always imagined it like _The Fun House._ A cross between a Francis Bacon painting and a pantomime. Screaming faces and whirls of iridescent colour spiralling in a void. Poor John.

‘You’re a busy man, Mr Wayne,’ said Dr Leland suddenly. She paused outside the door to the visitors room. ‘What I am trying to say is: John’s trust is a fragile —and I mean fragile — thing. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’

Bruce knew Dr Leland was referring to John’s suggestion that if he did good enough for long enough, Bruce could somehow work some Wayne magic to get him out. Eventually. On some bright, distant day in the future. That Bruce was big enough and friend enough to help him be free someday.

‘I am not a fool, doctor — or at least I try not to be.’ He looked at her in earnest. ‘Still, there is no harm in asking: do you really think he’s in here for good? Till death do him part?’

Her face was still and her eyes were studying his. ‘I am afraid so,’ she said gently. ‘It was a mistake…I made a mistake in releasing him. Particularly into a city like Gotham. There’s opportunity to lose your soul in every alley, trouble around every door. Even in high office for that matter — hell — maybe especially in high office.’

Harvey’s sane and smiling face flashed across his mind, followed by a face he barely recognised. Although Batman had saved Dent from Cobblepot’s attempt to maim him, Lady Arkham’s drug had taken his friend’s sanity. Pushed him into some hellish place that caused his mouth to tighten, his cheek to twitch and his eyes to stare, the whites mad with pinhole pupils and the shadow of his brow fixed in constant gloom. Visiting Harvey was to be accused one minute and to be begged for forgiveness the next. And the coins, and the counting of tiles, and the flipping of bottle tops — all confiscated — all made Harvey scratch at the surface of his skin in the absence of a fifty percent chance that might — might — just be the right decision. God, he missed the real Harv. He’d tried to do what was right and look where noble intentions had led him.

Bruce thought a moment. ‘John did play a crucial role in saving lives. The police know that. I think people forget that of John, despite the murders.’

‘Well, you would know,’ she said quietly. ‘No further questions, Mr Wayne. I don’t need to tell you discretion is advised. Enjoy your visit.’

A brown hand flashed a keycard to the door and Dr Leland ushered Bruce into the familiar wallpapered room, worn like sun-bleached canvas and built to receive visitors. Bruce was sure the wallpaper was as old as the house: exotic birds ducked and leapt from hand-printed branches, making the whole space seem like some aged avian ballet. The armchairs must have been replaced, but still looked pretty beaten, and there was the Victorian fireplace. Blue flowers glimmered on tiles behind a thick iron cage. He wondered if in the past patients had tried to escape up the chimney.

John had been in wait for Bruce’s eyes to find his own and upon doing so leapt up. ‘Buddy!’ Bruce let John shake his hand like he was throttling a weasel. ‘Wait till you hear what I have to tell you!’

Bruce sat back into threadbare upholstery, cocked his eyebrow and gave one of his devilishly handsome, lopsided smiles. John’s teeth gleamed.

‘I actually stopped a fight – I mean – I talked them down.’ His friend held his arms wide, clearly very excited.

‘Well, diplomacy is an art, John. You should be proud.’ 

John’s eyes focused on someplace else as he began the tale. ‘Billy accused Arnold’s sock of plotting to get him with the mindknives. I mean, so much so, he was cutting off Arnold’s blood flow. I wade in there — before the nurses have a chance to body slam anybody — and slowly, slowly whip the sock off! Arnold freaks. But I calmly demonstrate that it’s just a sock and textiles don’t hold grudges. Stopped loony Billy beating and pissing on an old man — and — his sock!’

‘Well, that’s great, John.’ Bruce clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Reason is the best weapon we have against unhealthy and irrational thoughts.’

‘You mean mad thoughts, Bruce?’ John chuckled. ‘It’s okay. You can say mad,’ and he leant forward to whisper: _‘we are in an asylum.’_

Bruce made to laugh, but his grin quickly turned into a grimace. He squirmed a little in his chair, holding his side.

‘Hey, you okay?’ John ogled him, genuinely concerned.

‘Yeah. It’ll pass,’ said Bruce gritting his teeth, ‘I am just about holding together.’

‘Oh. OH! I saw Bat — I mean the flying squeaker — fall. I saw the other stuff too!’ John’s eyes popped. ‘I mean he’s your dad — a dad who loved you. Of course, you’re not going to stop loving him, no matter what he did to who. _You can’t stop love that easily!’_

Taken aback and actually rather touched, Bruce nodded. ‘Thanks, John. You’re right. And we can love someone without liking them too.’

‘We can?’

‘Well, without liking them completely. You don’t have to agree with somebody morally to love them either, and vice versa.’

‘You mean Harley?’

‘Well, I —.’

‘Nah. I am over her Bruce.’ John flopped a hand like he was batting a fly. ‘She used me. And her actions were wrong. But I can’t help miss her, though. I find myself thinking about her sometimes.’ He hesitantly caught his eye. ‘That’s not wrong — is it?’

‘No, John,’ said Bruce quickly.

The pale face lit up with a grin. ‘But I find myself thinking about being out there with you more!’ A deflated expression briefly clouded Bruce’s face, but John appeared not to notice, punching a fist upwards: ‘one day, buddy! You’ll see.’

Bruce gave a weak smile, and before he could stop himself, he was speaking: ‘I am sorry, John.’

‘For what?’

‘For everything. It wasn’t fair.’ He shook his head, searching for the right words. ‘Between me and Harley…you never got a shot at the real world.’

His friend was taking it in, looking thoughtful. ‘Harley led me more wrong than you did, Bruce,’ he said finally. ‘You, in your way, gave me an opportunity to do what’s right. Not in a passive-citizen-kind-of-way, but as a hero —.’

‘John, I am not a hero.’

‘— but, I blew it. Literally blew it. Blew my top. Ran away on anger and adrenaline.’ A white hand rubbed the back of his neck and into the mess of green hair. ‘I honestly don’t know how you do it. People try to kill you, boss you, slander you. They spit in your face every day and you go on saving them anyway.’

Bruce sat still. He didn’t have a reply.

John continued: ‘you’re like a dog that gets kicked, but comes on home anyhow.’ He turned to speak to some spectre at the side of them: _‘Oh, so faithful hound.’_

The lines at either side of Bruce’s nose crinkled. He didn’t really like this comparison.

Theatrical expression switched and now John looked anxious. ‘Have you heard from your old man?’ he asked.

Bruce tightened. Some of the anger he felt must have deepened his eyes or twisted his mouth, because John exploded with laughter, quickly stifled.

John held up his hand: sorry.

‘No. I haven’t.’

John didn’t seem to know what was an appropriate reply, so he threw Bruce a well-versed line in therapy: ‘and how does that make you feel?’

He sighed, deciding honesty to a friend was no bad thing. ‘Angry. Sad. Betrayed…Abandoned. He was the last of my family and he walked out on me. He had no real obligation to stay, of course. He was — on paper — only my butler. Maybe I really am that awful…’

John blinked. ‘I don’t think you’re awful — I mean I did. For a time. But then you came back. You came to visit me.’ 

Bruce was used to John turning all things back to himself. Especially when vulnerability was shared. The man had been in therapy most of his life after all. 

‘We are friends aren’t we, Bruce?’ 

It was a question John asked nearly every other visit, and Bruce gave the same answer of reassurance: ‘of course, John.’

However, Bruce did not expect John’s next question: ‘do you have many other friends?’

‘I — no. I never did.’ Bruce sat still, surprised at his own answer.

John looked astounded and then nodded enthusiastically in a display meant to assure him. ‘Well, I’ve got your back, Buddy. You ever need to talk or — actually, I wouldn’t always trust my advice — but I am here, Bruce.’

He couldn’t hold back a smile. ‘Thanks, John.’ Then he caught sight of his watch and sighed like he’d stubbed a toe.

‘What?’ 

‘I am sorry, John.’ Bruce’s hand had found its way to the back of his head, where he drummed his fingers in irritation. ‘I’ve got to run’, he said. ‘I am people-mingling and ass-kissing tonight.’

John’s eyebrows raised and his lips pursed at the horror of it. ‘Oh. Party.’

‘In honour of Arkham, would you believe. The press will be there to slaughter me. I just —.’ He gave up on the sentence and rubbed his brow.

John’s expression mirrored his own distress, and then looking bewildered he said softly, ‘cancel.’

He laughed. ‘That’s exactly what Selina said.’

‘But, why not?’

‘It doesn’t work like that. It’s all about face. What face you present.’ Bruce’s eyes wondered up to the clock on the wall. Its hands had run dry a decade ago.

John’s own pale face screwed up tight in disgust. ‘And what hoop you jump through, right?’

‘Exactly.’ Bruce got up and wished he hadn’t, making a groan like a kicked dog as he held his side. _‘Oh shit_ …bye, John.’

***

When Bruce returned to the manor, feeling like he’d been trampled by a cattle drive, he saw a flower on the doorstep in front of the great double doors. It was a plant he couldn’t identify. True, he was no botanist, but he knew enough of Mother Earth’s flora to realise this flower was quite unusual. It looked a little like a lotus. Its plump white petals seamed to glow, their luminous sheen capturing light and holding it within. The stem was thick, had been cut at the base, and protruding were a nasty set of thorns, hooked and slender like cat claws. Although the flower couldn’t boast a great diameter, the scent rising up from its small gold centre made Bruce shudder with pleasure. It was glorious and sweet, smelling of earth, and greenhouses, warm fruit and tropical storms. His nostrils widened. And a cave smell, like water dripping on copper. He regarded the flower and decided to save paranoia for another time. The flower was probably left by Selina. He’d thank her and ask her about it when he next saw her.

Once inside, he placed it in a small crystal vase and thought no more about it. Samson came winding around his leg, purring so hard his meows quivered. After a few hearty pets and a nibble-lick off Samson, Bruce placed a bowl of prawns alongside the cat’s usual pouch and biscuits. The ginger tom immediately rushed to the serving of crustaceans and munched. Bruce laughed, thinking about the press running an article, flaming the publics disgust that his cat ate so well. 

Naked apart from his socks and trunks, Bruce studied his torso in the bedroom mirror. He was bleeding through the bandages he wrapped up on himself earlier. He carefully undid them, rubbed his wound with iodine and wrapped himself up with fresh. They weren’t as tight or as neat as they could’ve been, but he was doing it on his lonesome. Just as he had finished adjusting the cotton scrim — reaching wearily for his pants — Regina phoned.

Bruce growled at the dresser. He had deliberately buried his phone underneath a pile of shirts. Fishing between cottons and silk he found the sleek black case and reluctantly pressed the button.

‘Where have you been? I’ve been ringing for the last 48 hours!’ Regina’s voice breathed shrill down the phone.

‘Sorry, Regina, but life happened.’ He wasn’t in the mood for this. He had to save his ass-kisses for tonight.

‘Life certainly has happened!’ Wasps buzzed between every prickly syllable. ‘Did you know about this book?’

‘Yes, Regina, I gave Cecile Horton an exclusive,’ he said, unnecessarily sarcastic.

Regina went horribly quiet, then spoke: ‘I am not the enemy, Bruce. I know you like to think I am. When it’s convenient. Remember: what hurts you, hurts me.’

Bruce didn’t answer, but listened to the breaths stammering down the phone like a terrier snuffling in a rat hole. He smirked, pulling his lips down sourly.

‘I can’t promise the press won’t sneak in. This gala is hosted respectively by Gotham, not us. Just think about how you’re going to behave. And if needed: it is better to keep your mouth shut than say something you can’t undo.’

She made herself calm, so he had to be too. ‘I understand, Regina.’

‘They’re going to push you. They’re all going to push you. You’re the story, not Thomas.’ She actually sounded concerned for him.

‘I don’t always think people know the difference,’ he said bitterly.

There was a long pause. ‘Good luck, Bruce,’ she said quickly, then there was an incessant hum droning in his ear. She had put the phone down. Bruce sat with his head in hands. It was funny how often he felt like crying. He could feel like this for hours and hours and still no tear would even wet the corner of his eye. The stoic face of Bruce Wayne looked back at him from the mirror. He looked over his reflection’s bandaged chest. _I don’t want to go,_ he told the mirror in his head. His reflection’s mouth moved, ‘well, you have to,’ it said sternly. He nodded. Where were his pants?

***

Bruce was dropped off by a chauffeur. The gala was hosted in city hall, that was lit up from the inside like light passing through a diamond. Bruce took a deep breath and pushed roughly past the press. Cameras flashed and some called his name. He focused on the stone gargoyles at the top of the columns, leering down like the devil was rising. The interior was a riot of brass fittings and marble floors, and mighty columns that appeared to take the weight of the building, but were really just for show. A green banner was hung between the stone acanthus leaves. Bronze letters read: “SUPPORT ARKHAM. SUPPORT MENTAL WELLBEING FOR GOTHAM.” 

He pushed his way between the ballgowns and tuxedos swarming the floor. The eyes that fell on him either quickly looked away or fixed him, the owner’s mouth finding the nearest available ear to whisper in. There was a gaggle of people he was familiar with and towards this simpering throng he strode. His ears picked up the tailing end of the conversation: ‘I don’t want them mixing with the public,’ a woman in a scarlet dress was saying. ‘Isn’t that the whole point of the facility? We fund them and they have everything they need in there?’

Their faces turned in unison as he appeared on the outside of their circle. One looked expectantly at him.

Bruce cleared his throat. ‘In principle, yes. However, evidence has shown that people do far better with the support of halfway houses and community programmes when re-entering society. For those able to be released, they need all the support they can get, lest they end up back inside the institution. So, for those fortunate enough not to need 24-hour care, gentle mixing with the public is of great benefit.’

The woman’s face became as scarlet as her dress. Pursing her lips, she asked haughtily, ‘have you found a new butler yet?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ replied Bruce coldly.

Some unspoken agreement rustled among them and they dissolved from his side and into the rest of the crowd sweeping the floor. God, this was going to be a long night.

 _‘What was that!’_ a voice hissed. Regina had spotted him.

‘What was what?’ he grunted.

‘Didn’t I say: if your words do no good, keep your mouth shut!’ Her manicured hand clutched to his arm.

‘What and just smile?’

‘We are in a dangerous position, Bruce! Let us just get through the night.’ She forced a smile, waving at somebody across from them. They began meandering around the room. Everyone drifted around one another in a kind of slow-motion performance that involved holding a wine glass with carefree fingers and a limp wrist, pushing your head back, while pulling strange simpering smiles that Bruce had only ever pulled when sampling colognes. 

His cheeks were already beginning to feel rubbery, and judging from the dark twinkle in Regina’s eyes, hers were too. She leaned in close, the urgency in her voice betraying her otherwise joyful exterior. ‘The amount of mail Wayne Enterprises has received over this book — you don’t want to know! Request for interviews on Thomas and you. It is only a matter of time before one of our employees says _yes to the money!’_

‘Well, we’ll pay them more?’ said Bruce through a gritted grin.

 _‘Ha!_ I am afraid that’s part of the problem of our image. Things are not like they used to be.’ 

‘So, what do you want me to do, Regina? Stop shaving, don a white robe and go live as a hermit on top of Arkham’s spire?’ He sneered, twitching his nose. ‘Maybe getting sectioned would be a good PR move, eh, Regina?’

‘Bruce. Don’t kick at me,’ for the first time her smile weakened. ‘This Thomas-scandal never seems to go away…and just when it looked like it was done and buried _there is a bloody book!_ With new, never before seen documents, and the whole of Gotham media is tailing it. And you don’t do your best to look nearly as sympathetic enough!’

‘The amount of money I’ve given —.’

‘Yes! But that’s the problem. _It’s just money._ And Wayne-money, as far as they’re concerned, is a never-ending supply of easy built on the back of —.’

‘Crime,’ he finished for her, his insides a wash of guilt. Beneath the bandage he was hurting. If they only knew what he gave. ‘So, what would you have me do?’ he spoke calmly and sincerely.

‘You — and not your employees — are going to have to give interviews in response to this book. And I think the best way to play it is apologetic of and sympathetic to the material. We — the board — are going to have to script this, and you’re going to have to play the bloody game for once!’ Regina gasped, ‘where are you going?’

He’d walked away from her. He couldn’t do this. Not now, not when all he wanted to do was curl up in a dark room and wait for tomorrow’s sun. Drinks were being given and somebody handed him one. He took it, grateful of some booze and gawked at the liquor in the glass. He’d not drunk absinthe in years. The drink was green like the colour of Arkham. He sneered at the organisers’ attention to aesthetics, the kind of people who would try to colour coordinate the patients. Designer straight jackets and asylum glam. He tittered audibly.

At the entrance there was suddenly a frantic clicking of cameras. Cecile Horton had arrived. There was a mixed reaction from the room. Some looked hostile, others uncomfortable, some clearly supported her and others were simply eager for more gossip. 

_‘Miss Horton! Miss Horton!’_ ‘the press cried. She appeared to be accompanied by a man — although trying to be subtle — was clearly a hired guard. Bruce didn’t know why, but he looked wrong. He didn’t look brutish, if anything he was smart, clean-shaven and well dressed, but there was a look in his eyes like a shadow hiding a box of bones. This man was a killer. He was sure of it. Bewildered, Bruce shook the thought from his head and tried to get as far away from Horton as he could. The press was trying to get in at the entrance, but the thick arms of security held them back.

He looked about him, there were several people with phones, and a few more with discrete camcorders, almost hidden on their neck collars or top pockets. He turned away and found himself between one of these recorders and none other than Cecile Horton herself. He paled. She did the opposite and her cheeks were momentarily flushed. However, soon recovered she boldly stepped forward and addressed him. ‘Mr Wayne! It’s so good of you to be here, supporting the vulnerable. Mental health and the exploitation of less able people is a sensitive issue, don’t you think?’

That was it. He was trapped. With effort he kept his voice light and conversational. ‘Of, course.’

‘Do you think it’s time that Arkham got a new name?’

‘I — no,’ he stammered, trying to evade her deft strike below the belt. ‘I think Arkham is part of Gotham’s history, and rather than erase history, we should seek to extend the conversation,’ he stated finally. 

Horton blinked, clearly taken aback by his answer. All around he was aware cameras were watching him. ‘Yet, you didn’t always feel this way? What about _‘The Thomas and Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital?_ ‘The Wayne’s connection with Arkham is more than intimate. How would you extend the Wayne-Arkham conversation?’

In the moment there came a disquieting throb in his chest, beating steadily harder as the smell of blood filled his nostrils. The cameras were watching him.

‘Excuse me.’ He pushed past Horton. 

There was a bad smell, a really bad smell. But no matter the putrescence pooling at the back of his throat, there was this sweet odour that pulled him, called him to seek it. He must have pushed her too roughly and her bodyguard came forward. The smell. It was coming from the man. The criminals scent hit the back of his sinuses like a blast of cold air, although the man in front of him was hot and throbbing. He heard the blood pound and then the man pushed him. His fist whipped and struck the man hard on the nose. A spray of red stained his hand, and up his sleeve and onto the polished marble floor. Trembling, he licked the foul substance off his knuckles, exulting in its iron-sweetness. He shut his eye. Images of wicked deeds — the rape of women, and the murder of a child — flitted behind his eyes.

He heard his own voice speak low, but clear. ‘I’ve judged you: _criminal._ And in the name of those you’ve wronged I now claim your life.’

And with that he sunk his teeth into the man’s neck. Cecile Horton screamed. The room was in complete panic. Those in the vicinity ran, some stumbled, while those at the back knew something was wrong, but didn’t know what. With security running towards him the press spilled in.

The world span away from all reason. There were bats everywhere. He sunk to his knees and his teeth closed around the spluttering throat again. His limbs felt rubbery, fingers numb as his nails scratched into the man’s chest and face. Numb. Like he was wearing the Batsuit. No. He was Batman. The man beneath him lay paralysed, jerking. He was fitting. There were bats running all over his body.

Bruce turned his head, blood running down between the grooves of his snarling teeth. He could see Regina standing there with her mouth a round pink hole. She looked like she was going to faint. 

A sharp kick struck his head. Security were making the crowd step back. Cameras flashed. Somewhere in the distance he could hear sirens. The foot made to kick him again and he sprung up and into blackness. 

He was moving his body — thrashing and winding — but everything was dark. 

Punching and twisting and shrieking he flailed in the blackness.

The sirens growing louder was the last thing he remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to say this story is NOT a sequel to 'For the Love of Fools?' A completely independent work. Thank you for reading and all the best to you! ❤


	2. A for Arkham

Gordan and Montoya escorted a sedated Bruce Wayne to Arkham hospital. The ambulance was driving as fast as it could, it’s red and blue lights whirling against the surrounding city, blurred, as they rushed by. Staff were stretched thin tonight, calls of stabbings and lootings plagued their phonelines. Even so, Gordan had insisted being in the back with Bruce, and Montoya never left his side. Red seeped through the cloth he had pressed to the man’s torso. When they reached the asylum Wayne would immediately be taken to surgery. 

In all honesty he was pretty shook up, he’d admit that much. Gordan watched Bruce’s eyes flutter franticly under his eyelids, moving faster than a clock’s seconds hand. So much damn blood, and not all of it was Wayne’s. He stared at the red ring around Bruce Wayne’s mouth, smeared down his neck too and flecking away like rust as it dried.

‘That was crazy,’ Montoya whistled. 

He didn’t have a reply, too disturbed to have formed an opinion.

Faintly she shook her head. ‘The way he was moving. Wayne crawling about the floor like that — you’d think it be funny? But it wasn’t. Ghoulish. Me and my pa once went to this cave…the way he was crawling…it kinda reminded me of a bat.’

Gordan’s stare intensified, his eyes growing a little rounder, flashing behind his glasses. He momentarily lifted the cloth and looked down at the wound on Bruce’s side. Montoya followed his line of sight to where the cloth — stained completely red now — covered a burst set of stitches and a deep, medieval knife wound. ‘Hey, you don’t think?’

Gordan shook his head. ‘We’ll put the Batsignal on. See if he comes.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

Gordan didn’t reply.

Her words were cautiously measured. ‘We’re taking Wayne’s blood to check for drugs. Do you wanna compare it to that spear?’

‘If we don’t, somebody else will,’ rumbled Gordan. _‘Jesus!_ I don’t know!’

‘I mean — do people just snap like that?’ asked Montoya quickly.

‘I’ve seen people snap. But never like that.’ He shook his head, eyes lost in some dark place.

Montoya observed Bruce’s lip twitching the way a mad dog does when dreaming. ‘I mean, that book! Maybe it was the final straw? Maybe he was always crazy?’ she shrugged, determined to hear her commissioner’s thoughts.

‘Crazy or not, he did good — _‘Jesus. What am I saying!_ He ain’t Batman until proven otherwise.’

‘The guys always thought there was more than one of them,’ said Montoya quietly.

‘No,’ Gordon’s voice was firm, ‘there was only ever one man.’

‘I know,’ she agreed.

The ambulance slowed and they passed the gothic iron of Arkham’s notorious gates, black spikes rising into a gloomy, starless sky. As they pulled to a stop and hopped down onto gravel, Dr Leland came forward to greet them, looking cold in the autumn night. 

‘Good evening,’ she said solemnly. 

The ambulance men passed Bruce Wayne over to a pair of Arkham nurses, who immediately took the stretcher away, kicking gravel up as they hurried. All three watched as the new patient disappeared into the asylum. 

‘So,’ said Gordan, lighting a cigar. ‘This is an Arkham matter as much as a police matter.’ He sighed, rasping a couple of puffs off the end of his tobacco, ‘do you think it could have been drug induced? Do you think he was aware of what he was doing — or — or was he gone?’

‘You’re asking for my professional opinion?’ asked Dr Leland coolly. ‘I think Mr Wayne experienced a psychotic break — a severe departure from reality.’

‘So, he is crazy then!’ blurted Montoya.

Dr Leland chose to ignore her remark. ‘The wound on Mr Wayne’s torso: have you considered it’s remarkable similarity to the wound Batman sustained in Gotham Museum?’ She eyed the commissioner shrewdly.

Reluctantly Gordan nodded. 

‘And is Mr Wayne —.’

‘Yeah. He’s the right height and width,’ he coughed between puffs of smoke.

‘And the chin’s the same.’ 

_‘Montoya!’_ The commissioner rounded on his colleague, spluttered and leaned over, hand on one knee as he hacked and wheezed.

Gravely, Dr Leland’s eyes swept the ground as she spoke, ‘and if Bruce Wayne turns out to be the Batman?’

‘Well, that depends on whether he is both the Batman and crazy, or just Batman!’ Gordan coughed some more. ‘We haven’t had the drug test back yet, obviously. I just — I can’t see the Batman snapping like that. I don’t know about Wayne. He’s always seemed brittle and unpredictable to me…hiding away in his ivory tower…when he’s out in public he’ll say anything to please the right crowd. The man’s got — I don’t want to say no integrity — but Wayne is NOT Batman!’

Nobody said anything so he continued, tapping the end of his cigar till a lump of ash fell. ‘All this business with his father,’ he mused, ‘maybe it just got to him. But it doesn’t seem enough — he’s surrounded by doting friends and he has that butler waiting on him hand and foot — he’ll be the first we’re gonna interview.’

‘Actually, his butler left,’ said Dr Leland plainly. ‘Alfred Pennyworth. He was alone up there in Wayne estate.’

‘Pennyworth? Montoya, make a note of that. We’ll see if we can track him down. How do you know all this?’

‘He has a friend on the inside.’

The commissioner pointed round at the asylum and Dr Leland nodded.

‘Christ — _who?_ Not Dent!’

Her expression tightened, she seemed guarded with her answer: ‘John Doe. Bruce visits him regularly.’

‘Doe?’ Gordan scratched his head till his eyes popped. ‘— _‘the killer clown!’_

Not liking his words, Dr Leland uncharacteristically scowled, but she nodded all the same.

Gordan held up his hands. ‘Well, there you go! Dent and Doe — that’s at least two madmen he’s friends with! So, what does that say about Wayne, eh?’ A cigar waved about disgustedly, glowing hot. He brought it to his lips and sucked deep.

Dr Leland said nothing. Gordan took note and waved his hand in apology. ‘I am sorry, doctor. Let’s just call it a night.’

‘Regardless of whether Wayne is Batman or not, the world is going to make his life a living hell. The press will be relentless. We have to protect him. He stays in Arkham, as shielded as we can make him,’ she spoke sternly and with concern.

Glasses wobbled back and forth, briefly catching the lamp overhead. ‘Agreed. I don’t envy the guy.’

Dr Leland leaned forward. ‘One more thing, Commissioner: the man he attacked, what is his status?’

‘Critical. It seems Wayne can pack one hell of a punch. There are splinters of septum where they shouldn’t be and the guys hemorrhaging badly, that, and all the damage to his throat.’

‘So, he’s not dead?’ she asked carefully.

‘No.’ Gordan threw down the end of his cigar and stamped it out. ‘Not yet anyway.’

***

Everyone in the lounge was gathered about John’s chair, well everyone except Billy. He was still circling the right pillar like a man lost in the desert. They were all — staff and patients — staring dumbfounded at the TV. John looked about the dumbstruck faces, his own perfectly stupefied.

‘Was that real?’ he asked, just to make sure.

Zasz’s scarred lips smiled wide. ‘Yeah. Which means the nutter’s coming back to join us.’

 _‘They can’t do that. I don’t want that. They can’t let that in with us_ — QUIET, DOPE! He’ll be so stuffed full of drugs he won’t be able to think straight, let alone walk straight. And if he can — I’ll sock him!’

John stared hopelessly at Arnold.

Taking one last glance at the footage Zasz laughed nastily. _‘Jesus._ Well, John, looks like you can forget your ticket out of here.’ He walked back to the chess table, ready to continue the game. ‘No point being the good boy anymore now.’ Like an order had been given the rest dissolved from behind John’s chair and resumed the same activities they had done for the past x-number of years.

John gaped. Zasz’s words had caused a cold pit to open up somewhere beneath his navel. With effort, he pushed this dread to the side of his mind and continued to watch the television. On repeat for the last thirty minutes, the same footage played again. It was an amalgamation of snaps from professional cameras and the less slick, shaky footage of phones. But in all the videos was Bruce. 

John laughed, uncontrollably, and then apologised to thin air. 

Whirling like a wounded animal in the middle of City Hall was Bruce Wayne. His eyelids were pulled back so tight that his pupils were pinpricks, his blue irises larger than John had ever seen them, completely surrounded by feral-white. A security guard made to kick Bruce again, but he darted around the boot, grabbed the guard and tossed him over his shoulder like the man had been nothing more than a child. Another lunged forward and he flung that guard too, before crawling — almost flat to the ground — on his hands and knees back to his victim’s throat. The man was covered in blood, and so was Bruce. Great smears of red soiled the marble floor were Bruce’s hands had swiped through, tongue lapping madly. His hands were soaked with so much gore he looked like he was wearing scarlet gloves, and John was sure there must be bits of flesh stuck under Bruce’s fingernails too. The man lying on the ground looked like a dog had torn through him. Police joined security and, in the scuffle, they tore off Bruce’s shirt. Amongst the hissing and shrieking the great gash in Bruce’s side was revealed. Stitches popped open, bandages askew, fresh blood pumped over the dirty rust of blood that had set. Finally, with the men pinning him — and Bruce howling — a shot was fired and his friend passed out beneath the hands pushing down on him. As one video ended, another was played of the same event from a different angle, with a different panting voice saying something like: _‘oh god, oh god, oh god.’_

A voice in John’s head thought all of it was hysterical. Laughing at Bruce-gone-werewolf as much as the stupid, panicked faces on the citizens that had wanted to see Bruce gaslighted. _They got what they deserved,_ as far as John could see.

‘Yes, but Bruce didn’t deserve this,’ John muttered under his breath. It didn’t make any sense either. Bruce was the most rational, in-control-person John knew. Although John was aware (and excited) by his friend’s inner darkness, it was always suppressed by the iron will so characteristic of his buddy Bruce. In fact, it was an aspect of Bruce he found quite attractive and wanted to emulate.

‘Unless — this is what Bruce kept under his grip all along and his will got slack from all the prodding. Mad is mad. No one asks to go mad, it just happens.’ John murmured quietly to himself.

His belly was doing back flips with excitement at the thought, but a larger part of him felt cold. He actually felt sorry for Bruce. The guy he looked up to — hated, loved, obsessed over — was to be pitied. He’d thought the same stitch meant he could be more like Bruce, not Bruce could be more like him. The thought elicited a strange feeling: a mingling of sorrow, disappointment and euphoria.

Swatting a pale hand, John batted the thoughts away. He wasn’t drawing any conclusions just yet, and continued to watch TV. This time scrutinising the crowd with an imaginary magnifier. 

Somebody, or something, must be amiss somewhere and John was going to find it — or — or — Bruce really had gone mad. Everyone looked suspicious. _Paranoia was a bitch,_ thought John.

***

He had been dreaming about hands. Hands attached to blue uniforms had pinned him, and then hands attached to white uniforms had stripped him…and strapped him down…they had had to get extra straps. There had been screaming. His side burned and he was sure tiny mouths were taking tiny bites. Bats nestling in his open wound: small, quivering black bodies. There was still screaming, and a noise like a snarling animal. His fingers trying to scratch beneath the binds — _or was he trying to fly? Had he been flying?_

_Something had been calling him to fly._

A great sting-tipped needle was thrust into his neck. Gradually the yelling stopped and his own breathing encased him like a shell. The lights above dissolved, and bats, nothing but bats remained. He lost consciousness to their wing beats.

***

Clouds hung over Gotham like smog, the few stars visible glinting like rings snatched from peoples’ fingers, lying lost in some greasy back alley. He could see Wayne Enterprises from the rooftop. Scaffolding still clung to the outside, but all traces of Riddler’s missile had been erased. Like Lucius Fox had never died. Gordan tightened, subconsciously drawing several heady puffs from his cigar. Batman had tried to lie about Lucius Fox. Batman had tried to prevent him from arresting Bruce Wayne too. He’d been so sure Wayne was dirty, so happy to see the man on his knees, unable to worm his way out — or so he’d thought! Waller soon came to shit on that parade. And maybe it was a good thing too.

There was a creaking of metal as he rotated the Batsignal, sharpening the image as the cloud changed, ash falling as he did so. He took another puff.

Wayne had also aided him in backing Falcone into a corner. Handed him a file with enough dirt to lock him up for several lifetimes — then Montoya shot him. And Bruce was the first to divulge she had been drugged. Eyes on him like a detective. Batman, Lucius Fox, Wayne Enterprises, Bruce’s ability to cough up intel — he had assumed Wayne had worked with Batman after the Agency debacle — but _never_ that Bruce Wayne _was_ Batman.

The thought didn’t sit right with him. Not at all. He and Batman had a connection. He imagined some hardened rogue — maybe ex-military — who had had life rough and picked up the mantel of some calling. Surrounded by a team of tech-geeks who enabled Batman to be greater than the sum of his parts. True, the guys insisted there was more than one of them, but Gordan knew better. Like he thought, they had a connection. A connection with a man he could relate to — maybe even an ex-cop — not some pampered billionaire playboy with a spine like a snake. That man could only sweet-talk, sliding and slithering out of all tight spots, slick with high society polish and a body chiselled for glam-shots in the press. Well, not anymore!

Gordan sighed. He felt sorry for him, he honestly did, but Bruce Wayne could not be Batman. What would his team have been? _Lucius Fox and his butler!_ Gordan audibly laughed. _And a billion pounds!_ The laughter trailed away…and a billion pounds.

‘Has he been?’

He startled, turned and saw Montoya with a cup of coffee. It was nearly three in the morning. He had many nights that required coffee, non though where he simply stood on a rooftop and waited.

‘Thanks. No. Nothing. Zip. Nada.’ His moustache quivered as he sipped from the mug.

She raised her eyes to the bat stretched over a cloud curled like a fist. There was a creak as Gordan shifted the signal again.

‘You think he’ll come.’

He huffed, then sucked. ‘I don’t know. If he comes, he comes in the first hour. If not, then he comes the first hour of a different night. I can count the number of times he’s not shown on both hands. And most of them were when Bruce Wayne was working for the Agency!’

Montoya shook her head, her eyebrows curved softly in concern. ‘I don’t think Bruce Wayne’s a bad guy.’

He rounded on her. ‘You think he’s the Batman?’

‘I think if he is…there’s a back story there. And like you said: _“He did good.”’_

A jet of smoke shot out of Gordan’s nostrils as he spun the signal, hinges creaking unnecessarily loud. ‘Back story? Huh? He got over that…inherited an entire estate and a billion-dollar company!’

She looked deeply troubled. ‘I don’t think he did,’ she murmured. ‘You hear stories of him leaving flowers on the Wayne’s graves weekly, haunting Crime Alley like a ghost.’

Gordan lost his pop to drink when he was twelve. It hurt bad for a while, but he got over it. He had to. ‘I don’t believe that. I am not saying the man doesn’t hurt, but become a vigilante? _Wayne_ become a vigilante! The man’s made for parties – that’s as far as his calibre stretches. And look what his dad turned out to be. Blood is thicker than water, that’s all I am saying. Maybe his dad was crazy and now he’s gone crazy. The aristocracy and that — some funny things run in their gene pool. That’s all I am saying.’

Montoya’s disturbed brow hadn’t faltered, deepening to show her clear scepticism at his words.

Gordan took his hand off the signal, irritated. ‘Look. I may not know who is under Batman’s mask _literally,_ but I know, Montoya — _and it ain’t Wayne!’_

Never changing her expression, she raised her eyes to the bat above. He made a snuffling noise under his moustache like an aggravated terrier and continued:

‘You know where you are with Batman — well most of the time. Straight forward, honest where he can be — the best of masculinity. _Wayne!_ I’ve never heard a sincere word slide out of that man’s mouth. He’s like a snake. Winding here, winding there. And his teeth’s too white.’ 

She was still gazing at the bat. 

‘Though I am surprised with all the ass-kissing he does,’ he tittered harshly. ‘Say anything to please anybody that guy. You remember when he chose to fund Arkham over the GCPD? _Hmm?_ Would Batman have done that? No.’

‘Why do you think he’s gone crazy then?’ asked Montoya, still staring above.

‘Like I said: bad genes.’

‘And that wound?’

He took three puffs in a row and flicked the ash. ‘I don’t know. He had his fingers in the pies of arm dealers like Rumi Mori — though we don’t have it on record — thanks to Waller — maybe he pissed one of them off. Fell out of his private plane wrong, parachute didn’t’ go off — I don’t know! Found out about this book and tried to commit seppuku — when that didn’t work — went rabid! I DON’T KNOW!’

He hadn’t meant to get so angry. Running his fingers through his grey hair, ash dropping. ‘Gee,’ he sighed in apology.

‘I’ll leave you alone, sir.’

‘No. _Montoya!’_

He kicked the side of the signal. _Oh, what was the point?_ He’d try again tomorrow. With a clang of the switch the Batsignal shut-off. He’d shine that signal night after night until Batman bloody well came. He finished the rest of his cigar in the gloom of Gotham’s night sky. The clouds greedily closed around the few stars out: fingers snatching diamonds. He blew a steady stream of smoke at the last twinkle he could see, unaware that a wanted felon was driving her motorbike to the edge of the city, clothes packed, and a cat carrier strapped tight. Samson and Isis gave protesting mews at each set of traffic lights.

***

From a sleep so deep it might have been death, Bruce stirred and lingered at the edge of waking for what seemed like an age. He knew he was in pain, but the ache seemed strangely distant.

When he opened his eyes, he opened them fully and shut them again. He was strapped into a bed and that bed was part of a line of beds at either side of him and across from him. The other beds were empty. The walls were tiled and coloured dark green. Some had cracked — some had fallen off the wall completely — but they moved floor to ceiling like the back of a great snake, and met the floor that was a chessboard of black and white stone.

Bruce saw his hand take the black knight’s horse and move it, expecting to see Lucius in the doorway. No. Lucius Fox was dead. The sound of his own heart drummed in his ears and he was careful to breathe. If he didn’t measure each breath, he was sure he would lose consciousness.

Bruce opened his eyes again, but a lethargy rolled them back shut. There was a stain-glass window set into a gothic arch, and on it, in lurid emerald, was the illuminated scroll of the letter A. 

_A_ for _Arkham._

Bruce heard his chest hitch a breath. With forced calm he seized some control of the panic coursing through his body. _What had he done?_ He couldn’t remember, but he was sure it was bad. An iron tang filled his mouth: blood. Gasping, he tried to reach to his lips, but the straps wouldn’t let him. He licked at the insides of his cheeks and around his lips instead. Nothing. He scrunched his mouth and spat a spray upwards. There was nothing there. He let his head slump back again.

Eyes half open, he became aware of a figure in a doctors’ white coat, stood a little further than the end of his bed.

‘Father?’

The figure approached, and a shadowy male face dissolved, revealing the coldly concerned expression of Dr Leland. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’ she asked, professional and aloof.

He didn’t, he honestly didn’t. ‘I was flying,’ he said dumbly.

She considered his words. ‘What else do you remember?’

Black wings rustled over his shoulder and his head followed, leading his cheek to hit the bed frame with a _thunk._

‘Mr Wayne?’

 _‘The police!_ I remember the police,’ cried Bruce, yanking his body against the straps.

‘Yes. Do you remember where you were at: City Hall, the gala?’ She was cold. The room was so cold.

‘No... _I am sorry Gordan.’_

‘You were involved in an incident with a man called Romane Baxter. Mr Baxter is in a critical condition. He was also the private bodyguard of Cecile Horton, who I am sure you are aware is the author of _The Wayne Arkham Connection.’_

‘What…what did I do?’ He tried to push himself upright, but the straps held him tight. There was a rattle, and Bruce realised it was the bed frame, shivering as his body surged with adrenaline. His heart seamed to swell till it filled every inch of his chest.

‘Witnesses say you pushed Cecile Horton, Romane Baxter intervened. You then punched Romane with what has been described as a _killer blow,_ and…well…there is no nice way to say this: bit his throat, mauled his neck, chest and face…and witnesses affirm you drank his blood too.’

A thousand tiny mouths opened to scream from behind the walls. Their voices so high, they were barely audible, but they were getting louder and shriller. Their high pitch was spiralling round the shell of his ear. 

‘I did that?’ His voice sounded so far away, like the words were rising up from under water.

‘Yes.’

The rattle worsened. The soundless whine became a continuous piercing whistle. His abdominals contracted, all his muscles spasming as if an electric current was suddenly flowing through him. Bruce felt cold sweat pooling in the well of his chest, the channel of his spine, beading on his temple in a fevered daze whose only clarity was thumping, thrumming dread.

‘Do you remember anything else?’

‘I remember the blood.’ Bruce spoke, but the words washed over him like a stranger’s. ‘It showed me pictures: the man was a rapist…he murdered his own child.’ 

_My god. What was he saying?_

‘Is that why you attacked him?’ He could hear the alarm in her voice.

‘No. Yes. I — his blood was calling out to me. I had to taste it in order to see.’ Bruce’s eyes were shut tight, his heels dug into the mattress, twisting the sheets, and his breath came out in harsh pants. ‘And that’s insane, doctor. All of this is insane.’

Dr Leland’s outline — the white lab coat — relaxed slightly. ‘The police are testing your blood for drugs.’ Bruce’s eyes shot open. ‘You are a high-profile man with a lot of enemies, and have been a victim of involuntary drugging before. Whether drug induced or not, I believe what you experienced was a psychotic break. Although breaks can appear to come from out-the-blue, they are an extension of existing mental dysfunction.’

Eyes snapped back shut, and Bruce gently shook his head. Dr Leland’s firm, pastor-like voice continued, dismissive of him, but ripe in her believe that she had the power to save his sorry-ass from the second biggest crisis of his life: 

‘I feel there is no recovering your reputation, but I strongly believe in this hospitals ability to help your mind.’

‘I am not crazy, doctor. _It makes no sense!’_ He was aware he was yelling, but neither had the will nor inclination to stop. _‘I am Bruce Wayne!_ My life is board meetings, charming people over extravagant lunches, parties, and _spending money!’_

‘— and at age nine you had your parents murdered in front of you.’ She let her words hover between them, her next, however, set a chill on Bruce colder than the steel buckle pressing into his side: ‘I think I have a puzzle piece that makes it all make sense. If you haven’t worked it out already, we are in Arkham’s surgery and recovery wing. Where, Mr Wayne, did you sustain such an injury.’

Bruce had no answer. He felt his face go slack like a mask. His mouth became dryer, his head lighter, and the air seemed to sparkle like flecks of ice were falling down behind his eyes and landing on his brain. Uncontrolled, is head jerked once and then he held it steady. He focused on his breath.

‘It was inflicted by a blade, Mr Wayne. Our surgeon thought it looked like a wound made by something like a spear.’

Bruce still had no answer. How could he? He was at the start of his journey to hell.

‘In time, I hope you are able to trust me. We will be working together quite closely, and for a long time.’ Dr Leland rested her hands one on top of the other in front of her white coat — a limp prayer — and gazed expectantly into Bruce’s fierce blue eyes.

Still no answer. He stared back into her own large, brown eyes. There was something wilful and uncompromising in them.

‘Witnesses said they heard you say something before you bit Romane Baxter: _“I’ve judged you criminal.”’_

Bruce turned his head as far away from her as the straps allowed, and again shut his eyes, tight. Lips slack, his face pained beyond expression.

‘I want you to think about why you would say that. I want you to understand something too: money will not get you out of here. Not like last time. You cannot buy your way out of here. _Do you understand?_ The consequences of your actions mean Blackgate or this hospital. There are no alternatives. Please, don’t refuse my help a second time. _Please,_ Mr Wayne, let me help you.’

He couldn’t let her see the turmoil he was in. _I’ve judged you criminal._ What if something dark and unrelenting had awakened in him? Those words were all too personal. And she knew it. He couldn’t see a way out of this. Batman’s time was at an end. The clock was counting down, and somebody, somewhere, had got exactly what they wanted.

Dr Leland’s voice tinkled above him like a song. ‘Now, I am going to give you something for the pain, and something to help you sleep. You’ll be out for a while. Try to rest easy, Bruce.’

He turned to her, his voice slow and full of sorrow: ‘I am…sure…’

But Dr Leland never knew what he was sure of, as he fell back into a dark rolling fog. It suffocated him and he tumbled round and around on the edges of an indescribable space. Density smothering him. Swimming in treacle. Thrashing limbs pushing against time. Moving achingly slow. As a flower opens. Bats drinking nectar. Bats catching moths. Bats devouring a wide-eyed man.


	3. New Patient

Dr Leland had let John into Bruce’s room. The corner camera never took its lens off him the whole time. Bruce had been moved to his own private room — not his permanent Arkham room, but a recovery room that was part of surgery. The guard had turned the key when John was safely inside. _Locked in with a madman!_ John laughed and Bruce’s face twitched before letting out a groan. His buddy looked terrible, just terrible. His skin was sallow, he had bruises under both eyes and his cheeks seemed more gaunt than usual.

John patted his friend’s hand. ‘No moisturiser in here, pal.’

Bruce’s eyes slid open and stared blearily up at him. ‘John?’

He was lent over Bruce, sat on a chair, with one hand under his chin, elbow resting on the bed. ‘Hey, Buddy,’ he said brightly.

His friend flushed and quickly shut his eyes. John could feel the shame rolling off Bruce like radiation, and sighed. 

‘Don’t be like that. You’re going to have to face the music sometime, pal.’ Nothing from his friend, except his breathing changed: the long uneven breaths of someone trying to keep control.

John’s eyebrows raised a fraction as he thought what to say, then he repeated to Bruce what he told himself when he felt like the floor had been yanked from under him: ‘that’s it, count to 10. There. How you feeling?’

‘Like the earth has stopped and I am the only one still spinning.’ Bruce kept his eyes shut, but at least he was talking.

John rubbed the back of his neck, then broke into a grin. ‘Boy, did you make one hell of a show, or what!’ Bruce didn’t reply and John scolded himself for being insensitive. John raked his brain trying to think of what to say. ‘ _Think!_ A-and the battle wound?’

Without a trace of emotion, Bruce opened his eyes, gazing blankly down at his right hand curled on the bedsheets. When he kept his peepers open, John’s shoulders slumped in an inward sigh. He stared hopefully in Bruce’s direction, trying to catch his eye, but when he did Bruce quickly looked away. 

‘Mostly numb from the painkillers,’ Bruce answered colourlessly. ‘I really tore myself up.’

‘Ooo — can I see?’

Bruce hesitated, looked gloomily around the room and lifted his Arkham t-shirt. A little too excitedly John reached for his friend’s chest, traced the outline of gnarly stitches and became distracted by the rest of Bruce’s body. 

John had imagined Bruce looked like a Ken doll underneath all those expensive suits he wore: plastic-perfect abs. But his real skin was rough, with scars twisting its surface into ribbons of translucent flesh — like on the back of John’s own hand — some thick gashes, others a needle’s width, all obscuring an underwear-model torso like chainmail. It was his turn to close his eyes now, and John imagined Bruce standing naked in front of him. A husky voice spoke the words _Calvin Klein_ , and in his mind he saw a camera’s-eye-view move up Bruce’s body until it reached his sullen, sulky face. Bruce lashed out and the cameraman squealed. 

John laughed and his eyes popped open. ‘Bruce! _These scars!_ ’ he exclaimed in a fizz of elation. ‘You look like a Frankenstein or something — _look at that one!’_

‘John, enough of the touching.’

He removed his fingers that had wandered dangerously close to Bruce’s nipple, and Bruce pulled the covers up to his chin. ‘Sorry. Cold hands.’ John held up his pale spiders in apology.

Bruce looked so damn sad. He also looked dangerously close to giving in and closing his eyes again. ‘You can’t be the player they say you are,’ John said quickly.

‘What?’ It worked. Bruce raised his eyebrows, distracted.

‘The girlies!’ John jingled, waving his hands enthusiastically. ‘You can’t cuddle up to them all that much — I mean what would you tell her? _You’re a lion tamer in your spare time!’_

Bruce frowned and sat up a little. ‘No. I don’t. I flirt, that’s all. It’s business.’

‘That’s really interesting, Bruce!’

‘ _Jesus, John._ ’ Groggily, Bruce rubbed his face. ‘I should be mourning over the man I beat on — not talking about how lonely my bed is.’

‘You did more than beat him up, Bruce,’ John leered. He couldn’t help it and smiled too wide for too long. Then his lips snapped back like an elastic band and John’s face was serious. ‘By the way his name is _Romane Baxter_ — they released it this morning.’

‘John, I know.’ With a weary hand Bruce held the side of his head.

‘I don’t mean to stroke you the wrong way, bud — but do you remember what you did?’

Slowly, Bruce took his hand away and his eyes widened as they flicked around the room and stopped, staring precisely at a spot behind him. John turned to look and saw nothing but empty green wall. He turned back to Bruce, whose lips were snarled open as his tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth. The whites of his eyes seemed to froth. He looked crazy. 

John slid back a little in his seat. ‘Buddy?’ 

‘I hit him. I bit him. I scratched him. And then the police came,’ Bruce said flatly. His eyes were a little more normal now.

In his head John went over the carnage playing every quarter hour on the TV.

‘Yeah…that kinda what happened.’ John smiled weakly and Bruce, catching on, grimaced. ‘I am just warning you: it’s all over the news and they like playing the news in this place. Just, try not to freak out, is what I am saying. You know, when you see… _it_.’

Bruce collapsed into both hands and squeezed the bridge of his nose tight enough to whiten his brow. John was really worried now. He had never seen Bruce behave like this — not even when the lotus virus had threatened the entire city — and wasn’t sure what to do. 

‘Hey. I — I am sorry, buddy.’ John extended his hand and hesitated before gently placing his fingertips on Bruce’s shoulder. The steel deltoid stiffened under his touch and John quickly removed his hand. ‘I am here,’ John gulped. ‘I know what it’s like to be the new guy,’ he tried to talk in a soothing voice, ‘it’ll be like last time: I’ll look out for you till you find your feet.’ John cracked a smile, ‘back we’re we started, ay Bruce!’’ 

Bruce’s whole body was shaking. He didn’t answer. Instead, he slowly opened his eyes like he expected a devil to be squatting there, and looked hauntingly across the room at the wall behind John. A little paranoid, John turned to look at the same spot, puzzled.

‘Tell me you can’t see them?’ Bruce whispered.

Something in John’s chest sunk. He looked at his friend and for the first time in a long time truly felt sorry for someone other than himself. ‘No. Just the same old tiles.’ He laughed feebly, hoping Bruce would laugh with him.

Gravely Bruce nodded and surrendered to the pillow, stiff under his head. One of John’s nightly routines was to imagine his own pillow as the head of somebody who wronged him that day. He’d beat that sour lump of stuffing into something half soft before trying to sleep on it. 

‘I think I am going to lie here and shut my eyes.’ Bruce spoke and John was thankful that his voice was level. ‘Tell me about Arkham. What’s the routine? Who’s okay? Who do I avoid? Mealtimes? Showers? The lot.’

‘ _Ooohoohoo_ – am I your Alfred now?’ John scuffed the chair on the floor in excitement.

‘Please, John. Just distract me.’

‘Right away, sir!’ he raised his hand in a salute, but Bruce had his eyes shut tight. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘there are different tiers of nutter in this place, and they sort them into sets. The ones most likely to rub elbows with society again are kept in a different part of the hospital. We never see them. But the bonified nutters, the real creeps like Zasz — and I am afraid you and me, buddy boy — are kept between three main sets: Amadeus, Ezekiel, and Icarus.’

John looked again at the tiles, then turned back to Bruce. ‘They’re bats, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, John. The walls are crawling with them.’

‘And that’s a new thing for you, right?’

Bruce answered, ‘Yes,’ but John noticed his friend hesitated, and knew from experience that pauses could mean an awful lot.

‘What colour are they?’

‘At the moment: green like the walls.’

John paused himself, wondering why the bats would be green, and then broke into a wicked smile. ‘Are they making sounds,’ he asked, ‘because I think I can hear them.’

Bruce’s eyes shot open and John started laughing, a noise like a hyena swallowing a duck filled the room. ‘I am sorry, buddy. I am just messing!’

Only a little irritated, Bruce sunk back down again. ‘And you’re Amadeus. And Harvey’s Ezekiel. I remember.’

John froze at the mention of Bruce’s former best buddy. His heart quickened in annoyance and he did his best to make his voice impartial. ‘I wouldn’t worry about Harvey so much…and I’ve talked to Dr Leland: you’re with me in Amadeus.’

Bruce nodded, but neither twitched his lips or chuckled his eyebrows. John stared down at his friend in deep irritation.

‘I thought you’d be more pleased,’ said John. His voice sounding sulkier than he’d have liked.

‘John,’ Bruce's tone was firm and woefully patient. ‘My whole world has been taken from me. I don’t know what happened or why it happened. If I’ve been set up — _what_ have they given me? _Who?_ How will I find them? I am in here. I have no one on the outside…and I think I am in here for good this time. My mission is over. I am over.’

Guiltily, John rubbed the back of his neck. He got it, he did. He just hoped Bruce wasn’t going to be like this for the next ten years. There was only so much misery from another human being John could take. Shouting was always better than crying. 

He decided to dip a toe in. ‘Well, sure: _legally._ But since when does _Batman_ play by the rules? _We could always break out…_ ’ 

His friend didn’t answer, but stubbornly continued to press for an itinerary in that gloomy drone, making John long for colour and glitter and anything not grey and bleak and wrapped in melancholy. What was it with Bruce and lists anyway? John sighed, but indulged. ‘Well, I won’t lie: the food mostly sucks and the showers are lukewarm at best. Actually, they’re a bit weird about the showers — they don’t like you having more than two a week.’

Bruce paled and John quacked with laughter. ‘I guess you _liked_ having showers, huh? And they’re mean with the soap too.’

There was a brisk knock at the door, a turning of a key and Dr Leland entered with a clip board.

John sprung to his feet in greeting. ‘What can we do for you, doctor!’

She smiled at John and approached the end of Bruce’s bed. ‘I see you’re awake.’

Bruce stared up at her like she was some sort of demon-nun from his childhood who beat his bottom every time he misspelled a word. John laughed, adding: ‘and not foaming at the mouth.’ He winked.

Bruce looked between the two of them like he was being cornered, and John immediately stopped laughing. Dr Leland seemed to notice. ‘John was desperate to see you. You’ve been mostly sleeping. You weren’t fit to do much else. It’s been a few days. We had to put fluids in you.’ 

Bruce’s eyes wondered till he finally noticed the drip stuck in his arm. His expression looked so bewildered that John couldn’t help it and started laughing again. 

Dr Leland continued, ‘I recommend taking gentle walks around the room, or supervised walks through the corridors.’

‘I’ll do it! I’ll supervise him,’ he trumpeted.

‘Thank you, John. Give it a couple more days and we’ll sort you out your own room and John will introduce you to the rest of A set.’

***

Bruce stared up at them both: the clown who wanted to be him and the therapist who wanted to dissect him. He hadn’t considered the rest of A set.

‘— and that’s where the therapy begins!’ John grinned, and Bruce thought of a goblin shark.

Dr Leland turned to John and spoke mildly: ‘John, will you be so kind as to give us a moment alone.’

Bowing, John spun jovially on his heal and left the room with a little skip. The two of them alone, Dr Leland turned back and scrutinised him with what Bruce was sure was meant to be a sympathetic and motherly expression.

‘Mr Wayne, may I call you Bruce?’

He hesitated. He wanted to say no, but knew it was inappropriate. What if he was going to be under this woman’s supervision for years and years and years? The thought was unbearable. After a long and awkward pause he replied flatly: ‘sure.’

She smiled, showing her appreciation. ‘Thank you. I need to make you aware that Commissioner Jim Gordan has demanded to see you as soon as you are awake and present in yourself. Now, I can try to postpone him, but he has almost as much authority as I do.’

No. He wasn’t seeing Gordan.

‘He says he has something he wants to discuss with you.’

‘No. Postpone.’

Dr Leland looked disappointed, but her voice was cheerful. ‘Very well. I’ll have a member of staff come bring you some food.’

A bat crawled up the wall and settled on front of a black screen and Bruce suddenly noticed the television. ‘Can I have the TV on?’ he asked quickly.

Dr Leland appeared to be thinking. ‘Do you think you are ready to come to terms with what’s on the news right now?’

‘I have to be. It happened.’

A small puff of air escaped Dr Leland’s dainty nose, and she glanced down at her clipboard like it had an answer. ‘Look. You’re Bruce Wayne.’

‘I know,’ he interrupted. Rubbing the side of his face in irritation. 

She blinked and continued. ‘The whole of Gotham knows your father’s involvement with this hospital. What do you think is on TV?’

Something in him snarled and he was only half aware his voice was raised. ‘The fact this book came out and then I attacked someone — you don’t think that’s even a _little_ suspicious?’

Her coffee-coloured eyes were fixed on the clipboard and slowly lifted to meet his own hard blue ones. ‘I can understand why a man like you needs to be paranoid. And maybe your incarceration is someone’s master stroke. _But what if it’s not?_ What if, after years of stress, trauma, the shock of Thomas Wayne, Oswald Cobblepot, your adventures with the Agency, the hostility of Gotham — what if something, somewhere just snapped?’

He resisted his desire to simply shut his eyes and blackout, and instead held her gaze, digesting the possibility of what she said. ‘Well, if that’s true…then…I deserve to be here.’

‘It isn’t _deserve_ , Bruce. It’s _need_. I am here to help you, not judge you.’

He didn’t want to be here. The idea he _needed_ to be here made his stomach feel like curdled tripe. He watched another bat scuttle up to the TV screen, and thought about being forced to live shoulder to shoulder with John and the other lunatics for the rest of his life. Until he went truly mad or ended his existence with a sharpened spoon he’d stolen from the kitchen, because a knife would be too easily confiscated. He sneered, then regretted it. He felt sorry for John. He really did. He felt responsible for John. He owed John and wanted to be his friend — but at a distance. When it suited, once a week, appearing in a crisp shirt and tie with business calls at the other end of his phone to summon him when things got too weird. He wanted to be the role model John needed, not his inmate, with med-addled drool staining his chest, stinking of stale food because they only allow showers twice a week. _They_ only allow. 

Suddenly he snapped, surprising even himself: ‘and John. Why are you letting him into my room? _What’s the deal!’_

Dr Leland looked taken aback. ‘Surely that is obvious — he’s the closest thing to a friend you have in here.’ Her eyes wondered over his face, and, as if she had read his inner thoughts, she asked: ‘is he a friend or just charity?’

Bruce chewed on the guilt souring his tongue. He could never quite put his finger on exactly how he felt about John, but his _exploitation of vulnerable madmen_ was one of the reasons John was in here. John was right: _he had used him_. John was also right: _he had enjoyed John’s company too._

Pensively Bruce confided, ‘not just charity. He is a friend.’

‘Then let him be your friend. Don’t worry, I know who John Doe is, but he can be surprisingly loyal when his trust is won.’ Dr Leland gently inclined her head and gazed at him with such soulful eyes he almost thought he could trust her.

An anger stirred within him, but he felt her words. His guilt intensified as he thought of John. ‘I know.’

***

Bruce ate his sausage, mash and peas half-heartedly. Fantasising about smoked salmon, cream cheese and bagels, garnished with chives or capers. Eventually he pushed his plate away. There was at least a third of the meal left uneaten and smeared about the plate, but he ate the apple with a little more gusto. Bruce anticipated quality fibre was going to be a hard thing to come by in Arkham.

After any kind of crisis Bruce would normally have been bent over the Batcomputer, feverishly typing, with multiple screens cross-referencing all and everything that could lead him to the truth. With Alfred by his side, offering astute and steady guidance. So much had changed since his involvement with the Agency. He’d managed to drive Tiffany away by trying to protect her, Alfred practically ran from him, he’d led John to be locked up, Lucius Fox was dead, Regina spent half her time trying to undermine or replace him — the only person he could remotely depend on in the real world was Selina, and…well…Selina was Selina. She _was_ a friend, but it was Selina first. A survivor who always made sure she lived to fight another day. Alfred. Did he really want Alfred to come to him, here, in Arkham? He was furious at the man, but fury was only part of the reason why he wanted Alfred to keep his distance. Could he really look Alfred in the eye after what he had done? The shame was a distant humming thing… _for now_ …but what about when he had to look Gordan in the face, or Montoya, or Avesta, or any of the people that had been part of his professional world. When he had to look Gotham in the face and Gotham looked back knowing full well he was Batman.

Bruce struggled painfully out of bed and hobbled to the door. It was locked and the TV wouldn’t work. He needed to see what had happened — he didn’t trust his memory. Like blotches on a film reel, his recollection warped with bats and grotesques sucking blood. 

The wall-bats seemed to flit in and out of his head. When he could actually see them it was unnerving. But the difference between him and a crazy person was he knew they weren’t real. His predicament was drug induced…it had to be. So, _who_ was his secret enemy?

The door unlocked and swung open as John bounced past the guard, almost knocking him to the floor.

‘Are you ready for the tour — take two!’

Bruce tensed. John smelled strange. Really strange. He swore the smell was coming from inside John. Something just behind his nose began to pulse, like a heartbeat, spreading out inside his head. He brought a hand to his brow and squeezed.

John’s wide show of teeth wavered. ‘Buddy?’

‘Yeah, hang on.’ Bruce limped to the aged metal sink at the side of his bed and turned the tap. A dribble of water ran feebly down the drain. ‘The amount of money I invested in this place…it sure hasn’t gone on plumbing.’ Bruce shut the tap off with a squeak.

John grinned at his half-eaten plate, ‘or sausages!’

He returned the grin. ‘Ground up pig lips.’ 

There was a bark of laughter. 'With extra sphincters!’ John stopped and crinkled his face up like he’d swallowed lemon juice. ‘Actually, that’s not funny. I have to eat that. _Eww._ Come, I’ll find you some running water.’

The two men went out into the corridor. The lurid green continued, but started from the middle of the wall and covered the ceiling like faceted malachite. The lower half of the wall was white and the floor a handsome spread of patterned tiles. As grim as Arkham was, Bruce couldn’t help but like the historic architecture. This aspect of the hospital at least bared some resemblance to his ancestral home. 

Wincing at the pain in his side, he stumbled and John caught him just below the elbow. A flash of wings knocked him dizzy and he pulled away from John. His friend looked a little hurt, but continued to amble alongside him.

‘Are you a bit more — what’s the phrase — _adjusted?’_

The smell was getting stronger. Chemicals and infection. Bruce did his best to appear normal. ‘I am getting there, John.’

John didn’t seem convinced. ‘How do you feel about Dr Leland?’ 

‘I like her less now I am on the other side of the fence.’

A pale hand pulled him to stop. ‘ _Aww_. Don’t be like that. I trust her,’ said John, pointing a thumb to his chest. ‘Mostly. And if you get on her good side, she can be pretty good back. She’s not as stick-to-the-book as the other doctors.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean?’

 _‘She lets me play dress-up in her office!’_ said John in a rush of pleasure, but catching the disparaging look on Bruce’s face he wavered, adding: ‘among other things.’

‘Do you think she’ll let me make a call?’ he asked carefully. They continued walking.

Bemused, John shook his head. ‘Bruce. I am sorry to break it to you, but I don’t think that stunt is going to work again.’ Then, abruptly, John’s face darkened. ‘We’re both stuck in here now… _thanks to you._ ’

Bruce stopped dead in his tracks. An anger shot inside him like a spray of pepper. He was not going to accept this clown’s Jekyll and Hyde routine. Grabbing John roughly by the shoulders he spun him round.

_‘Hey!’_

‘I am not pandering to you, John. We’re actual friends — right? Do you want me being all-smiles because I want something from you — _you hate that_ — or do you actually want me to be real?’ His eyes were a blazing blue.

The white face twisted, became incensed, then confused, and finally passed into an expression of reluctant acceptance. He nodded once and then smacked Bruce’s hand away.

Bruce bared his teeth. ‘Well then respect me enough to be honest with me. _Don’t_ talk behind my back. _Don’t_ twist my wrist. And I’ll respect you enough to do the same.’ Bruce walked away, holding his side. ‘The whole of Gotham has a knife to my back. If you have something to say: _spit it out!’_

John stared after him and his feet began to follow with a _clip-clip_ on the tiled floor. ‘ _Geeze._ And you say I am one of the only friends you have!’ Bruce didn’t answer. His own steps were much louder, his limp making a _clip-clup_ echo along the corridor. Infuriated, John stared at the back of Bruce’s head. ‘Well…it’s a blow to me to, _you know!_ You being incarcerated.’

Bruce halted and John nearly walked into him. ‘John,’ he spoke calmly, but a little muscle at the corner his eye tremored, ‘they were never going to let you out. Even with my money.’ Bruce leaned in, ‘ _Dr Leland_ actually said that.’

John looked like a child who had been slapped hard for no reason. His voice was feeble, ‘I thought we were making progress.’ 

Bruce leant against the wall. The bats were dropping off the ceiling, fading into air before he felt them touch him. ‘Could we please find this bathroom?’

John pulled his back up straight and smoothed his hair. ‘Fine.’ His voice had a little wheeze trapped behind the gloom that had clouded over him. ‘This way. It’s a Victorian bathroom — _old_ and _outdated_ — you’ll like it.’

The bathroom was tiled blue with ancient mirrors, brass fittings and a mosaiced floor covered in tiny sea creatures. Bruce immediately went to wash his face and hands, but stopped. He rummaged along the row of sinks.

‘Why is there no soap?’

John looked sheepish. ‘Well…some _guy_ stripped naked and lathered himself up with a little pink block of the good stuff. Hit the fire alarm. He was so slippery it took the guards the best part of an hour to catch him. They don’t allow soap _unsupervised_ after that little _soap-opera._ ’

God, he was starting to really hate this place. Bruce paused, putting two and two together. ‘How did you know the soap was pink?’

John’s cheeks blushed and for a second he looked like he was wearing rouge. ‘Well…the guy might have definitely been me.’

Bruce sniffed. ‘Inspired, John.’ He turned the tap and began washing himself furiously with the torrent of water now hitting the basin. John crinkled his nose as some spray hit him. 

Taking his top off, Bruce washed the back of his neck, his chest, under his armpits — and yelled — falling backwards. A creature with blazing green eyes, teeth like a pike, and nose as goblin and piggy as a vampire bat’s, could boldly be seen in the reflection of the mirror.

Bruce shielded his eyes, and cautiously drew his arm away to stare once more at the glass. Bruce Wayne, sallow and terrified, gawked back.

John clicked his tongue. ‘You _are not_ in a good place, buddy boy, are you?’

The water was beginning to spill over the sink, landing with a slosh and pooling around Bruce’s legs and the myriad of sea creatures set into the floor. John turned off the taps while Bruce pulled himself to his feet, slack leggings hanging even slacker now he was soaked. Bruce banged his fist on the wall. ‘ _Gaa._ It’s like something is trying to wrestle the steering wheel out of my hand.’ He stared dejectedly around the bathroom. ‘None of this feels real.’ 

‘Well…why don’t you let me steer for you.’ John gently placed both hands on his shoulders.

 _‘DON’T touch me!’_ Bruce immediately jerked away almost falling again. John just stared. Eyes closed, he spread his hand across his face. He was panting again. The smell was knocking him sick.

‘I’ll be honest…you’re acting a little crazy.’ John backed up, giving him respectful distance.

Something in Bruce’s head was pounding. He was not surrendering himself to the mercy of John fucking Doe. ‘You’d like that wouldn’t you?’ His voice thrummed with anger. ‘If I was as crazy as you? You belong in here, _I don’t._ After all I’ve given…it stinks. _YOU STINK!’_

John’s face crumpled, but in that moment he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he hurt him, he just wanted him gone. He got his wish. John turned and left the bathroom, slamming the door. 

Fearfully Bruce turned back to the mirror and pulled his lip up to examine his teeth, spread his eyelids open, pulled out his tongue and checked for blood. Nothing. He wasn’t crazy. He did not belong here. Guilt suddenly got a hold of his senses, but a rage swiped at it till it coward somewhere at the edge of his mind. He had to find a TV, a phone, anything — he had to see the footage. Only then could he start making sense of things.

He made sure to give John plenty of time to get away from him before leaving the bathroom, sneaking along the inner wall, avoiding cameras, listening for footsteps and voices. The pain in his side prevented him from ghosting the corridors the way Batman would. Most of the doors were locked or required a key pass. The only one that wasn’t, contained a mop and bucket and nothing else. Eventually on a corner of the corridor he spied a gangly-looking doctor leant against the wall with his back to him, scrolling his thumb on his phone. He had a weak chin, wet blue eyes, and a limp crop of hair that reminded Bruce of pale straw, looking like a scarecrow staked out and vacant. A smell like a frightened rabbit seemed trapped beneath the folds of his lab coat. Bruce took the piece of tile he’d worked free in the bathroom and flung it at the side window. The man immediately looked up, put his phone in his coat and went to investigate — while Bruce extended a hand and loosely slid the phone out of the white pocket. The man turned round, but the corridor was empty.

Turning the bucket upside down, Bruce sat and took refuge in the storeroom. His hand was trembling as he searched for the news footage. A title popped up: ARKHAM GALA NIGHTMARE — IS THIS HOW THE WAYNE LEGACY ENDS?

His finger tremored over a picture of his face: teeth bared savagely, red running down the groove of his chin. He couldn’t stand to look at his eyes. He pressed.

 _“Was it a full moon on the night Gotham came to honour the mentally vulnerable? It may seem a plausible explanation in light of such shocking events that took place at this year’s Arkham Gala. While conversing with Cecile Horton — author of_ The Wayne Arkham Connection — _Bruce Wayne pushed her to the floor. The interaction — that initially seemed like a violent tantrum — took a surreal turn as Horton’s security came to intervene. What followed has been described as a hammer horror scene of carnage and terror.”_

The phone was suddenly shrill with screams. The recording cameras a whirl of confusion as different angles showed a madman — a rabid lunatic — tearing through the flesh of a man’s chest with his fingernails. On all fours, body twisting like a demon as his mouth bit down on the throat of the man convulsing under him. His tongue lapping like a bat. Bruce Wayne turned to the camera and his eyes lit up like a deranged hound. Blood and foam frothed at the corners of his gaping mouth. 

He turned the phone off and let it fall out of his hand. He couldn’t watch anymore.

Both hands had found his head, shielding his eyes as he felt a pool of wetness leak between the cracks of his fingers. In the dark he sat and focused on his breath. Bats began crawling on the walls around him. Falling off the ceiling onto him. Needle claws and leather skin burrowing into his collarbone, scuttling down his spine, flapping about his chest. The bones of his right hand stiffened and with his left he felt webbing beginning to stretch between his fingers. Bursting from the storeroom, Bruce fell to his knees and vomited. Half-digested sausage and peas splattered the black and white tiles. He left it and began walking — just walking —up the corridor. What he’d just seen was insane. What he felt was insane. He walked and walked till he came to a window overlooking part of Arkham’s gardens. Autumn had turned most of the foliage into a red and gold shower, but there was a plant spread out like bindweed, pushing fronds of white buds through the stems of all the others. It had the most dazzling lotus-shaped flowers that appeared to glow with the palest green light. It was beautiful. He stood still, unaware of the tears running down his cheeks, and simply stared past the bars on the window at the miniature Eden in front of him.

‘Mr Wayne!’ A voice barked.

Bruce spun and saw Dr Leland rushing towards him with two guards. One held a syringe at the ready. He must have looked ghastly, his eyes swollen and desperately sad, because she regarded him with an expression of utmost sympathy. He felt so ashamed.

‘Please, do not steal from members of staff. If you feel you need something: ask.’

She handed him a t-shirt and Bruce became aware he was topless. He ran a hand over his bare chest, confused. He was wet too.

‘John left,’ he said flatly. Pulling the top over his head.

‘I know.’ Dr Leland looked at him sternly. ‘I found him in the lounge, brooding after you were hostile to him. Your compulsion to push everyone away will do nothing only harm you. Please recognise that.’

‘I want Alfred. I need to speak to him.’ His voice sounded like a child’s. He hated it.

‘I am afraid, that will not be possible.’

‘Why?’

‘There is somebody here to see you.’

‘I told you: I am not seeing Gordan.’

‘No. Not the commissioner,’ Dr Leland said clearly. ‘There is a representative from the Agency here to see you.’ She looked deeply uneasy. ‘I couldn’t prevent it.’

***

They took him down corridor after corridor. Lights hummed and flickered, and he could here anguished screams rising up from somewhere behind the walls. Before they pushed him into a secure room, they handcuffed him. He entered. Sat across the table — unrecognisable in a razor-sharp suit with cropped hair — was Tiffany. Bruce gasped. Her face was motionless, though her eyebrows were pulled slightly down in resentment. She greeted him the way police greet prisoners: a glare, straight in the eye, and then down to business.

The guards sat him on a chair, fixed the cuffs to the table with a chain, and left. The door clicked shut and they were alone. The table was bolted to the floor with thick rings of steel — even Bane might struggle to tear them out. Tiffany cleared her throat in a display meant to invoke her new professional status. 

‘I am here on behalf of the Agency.’ Her voice was so tight he barely recognised her. ‘We have a proposition for you: hand yourself, your rights and your estate over to us, and in return we will incorporate you into one of our special programmes. If you refuse, all ties and agreements will be cut and you will be left to face the mercy of Gotham’s Law on your own.’

‘Tiffany?’

‘I would prefer Miss Fox, if you would be so kind,’ she said stiffly.

Bruce studied her, she looked hard. Her curls replaced with a cut like a soldier’s. She seemed nothing but angles. ‘What happened to you?’

Despite her cool exterior she seemed to find it difficult to sustain eye contact. He knew he looked a mess. Even so, if she was going to play this role then she needed to look people in the eye. Waller would have looked him in the eye. 

‘I grew up, Bruce,’ she said finally.

‘Lucius wouldn’t have wanted this.’

‘You dare —.’ She bit her lip and resumed her professional straight-backed pose.

Bruce shook his head. ‘Go on, yell at me. Accuse me. Do what you will, but don’t become another of Waller’s puppets.’

Tiffany was silent.

He continued, trying to catch one of her hawk-brown eyes. ‘Either you asked to come or Waller sent you. Either way, our connection is the reason you’re here, so you might as well use it. Say what you’ve come here to say.’

Rubbing her thumb on her palm, Tiffany thought twice and then gave in. ‘ _Have you any idea what it was like to find out you were Batman from the nine o’clock news?_ It wasn’t hard putting it together. Half of Gotham will know by now. It’s only a matter of time before the media starts toying with the idea publicly.’

A hollow laugh escaped him. ‘You think this hasn’t occurred to me?’ He shook his head with a bitter smile. ‘A few days ago my life was stolen — I’ve been asleep for most of them — I’ve woken up in this nightmare without a soul on my side. Whatever I had left to give Gotham is irrelevant.’

For the first time Tiffany looked at him and held her gaze. Her eyes glistened for a second, but no tear was shed. Still, Bruce thought emotion made her more human, less like the drones Waller prized. 

‘You’re not even going to deny it, are you?’ she whispered. Bruce shook his head and Tiffany glowered. ‘You killed him. He died for you and you didn’t even tell me why!’ Her eyes were wet garnets as she searched his face for some reaction. He gave non. She chuckled humourlessly, ‘who knows, in another timeline I might’ve even been your ally.’

He knew better than to talk about Lucius. If she was here for business then they’d talk business. ‘Special programme?’ he asked, clamping his teeth.

Tiffany’s face flitted between expressions, looking furious then hurt. She soon took control and became the curt professional he first saw when made to enter the room. ‘The boss told me to tell you it’s suicidal.’ Bruce’s face darkened. ‘There’s a threat hanging over Gotham and you’re useless to the Agency in here.’

‘I am useless to the Agency _out there_ ,’ he hissed. ‘Haven’t you seen the footage. Don’t you know I am a lunatic now?’

‘Maybe,’ Tiffany said slowly, ‘the Agency can sort that too. All you need do is say yes.’

 _‘What?’_ he breathed. His heart quickened its beat. ‘Who is the threat?’

‘We only tell you when you say yes.’

Bruce’s eyes bulged horribly. _‘Did your people cause this?’_ His fierce blue pupils ringed in white. _‘Were your people the ones who DRUGGED ME!’_

‘No. Absolutely and positively NO!’ said Tiffany quickly. She had slid back in her seat. ‘We are offering you an opportunity, a way out before we are forced to clean up this mess.’

‘I don’t _believe_ you. _Tell Waller I’ll see her in hell!’_ The chain handcuffing him to the table pulled sharp as he put his face in hers. He could go no further, and by her wide-eyed expression she was grateful he couldn’t. 

‘The boss said this wouldn’t be easy, but she told me to tell you to think of Gotham.’ Her voice was beginning to waver. ‘If you want to sacrifice yourself, let it be on the battlefield saving lives, and not rotting in a cell because you were too proud to hand your power over to someone else.’

‘GO TO HELL!’ 

The bats were back. Their black bodies twisted about his own, falling from above and scurrying like insects across the table. Bruce rocked his head side to side, horrified. ‘Help.’ Tiffany had left her seat, standing back, looking like a frightened child. His body flushed with an excruciating heat and he began tearing at his top, ripping it off, and flattening his body against the cool of the table. He rocked back up. The chain pulled taut.

‘Call them back.’ His voice sounded like it came from behind him. Tiffany just stood there, her eyes open wide. Bruce began yelling. ‘HELP!’ The door must have burst open because guards were suddenly about him. His body automatically began fighting them. He struck one with his forehead and blood splattered across his face. He extended his tongue. The chain rattled like they were in a storm as more hands seized hold of his body. The bats were inside him. He shrieked. Then something dull pricked his shoulder. The lights above swelled like ice crystals and he slowly felt himself sinking. Hands upon hands followed him down to the floor and pinned him tight. 

Then. 

Darkness.


	4. Conspiracy (part 1)

‘Are you sure you’re okay, John.’

‘Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?’

Sometimes he looked forward to seeing Dr Leland in her office…and sometimes he did not. It was a strange room. Its Victorian origins still visible under an assault of modern decor: a simple plywood desk, filing cabinets, and other mass-produced furniture awkwardly sprawled beneath an elaborate plaster ceiling. When John lay on the chaise longue and looked above at the chalk curls he thought of clouds. Today he refused to lay back on the chaise longue — the long therapy couch with shiny patches on its leather, where countless patients had pawed — insisting instead on the chair opposite the doctor.

The last few sessions she had only praise for his good behaviour, which in truth he had lapped up unashamedly. Today she was doing that thing with her hands: interlocking her fingers. Like she was hiding something. 

Voice gentle, she broke the silence: ‘a lot has happened to Bruce, he may say or act in ways that seem unfriendly.’

John appeared unmoved, but quietly he imagined the striped green wallpaper behind her as lasers. Slowly moving forward to cut her into ribbons. 

‘I am aware you two had an argument.’

‘Sure. People argue all the time. How am I _feeling about it?_ That what you want to know?’ He held up both hands: ‘ _FINE._ Can I go now?’

‘You seem deflated. And I don’t mind you being hostile as long as you tell me the truth.’ Her brown eyes softened, doe-like as she gazed at him. ‘Why are you angry at me?’

John drummed his chin with his fingers, very much liking the idea of _deer hunting_ certain members of staff.

‘Well, I am in a bit of a muddle, Dr Leland. I’ve got a John with wings on this shoulder telling me to continue being good, and a John with horns on this shoulder telling me there’s little point in being good if I am never, _ever_ getting out of here.’ 

The doctor took a breath. 

‘And a John right in the middle, who doesn’t know who to side with. I can just tell Angel-John is going to be a depressing bore and, well, Devil-John looks like a laugh. And if I am never, _ever_ getting out of here, well I am gonna need a laugh, _aren’t I?’_

‘I don’t like threats, John. And you know it is better to be good when you are in the position to know the difference. Not everyone in here has that privilege of mind.’

‘Oh, lucky me,’ he said flatly. Drumstick fingers rubbed up the side of his jaw, squeezing his cheeks into a smile.

‘If you want to be mercenary about it: being good earns you points. And you can spend those points as you see fit.’ His eyes flashed as he made to say something, but Dr Leland quickly added: ‘inside the institution.’ Now her motherly voice turned stern. ‘No more points — no more coloured pencils, glitter pens, textiles, or playing dress-up in my office. Or any of the other activities you enjoy while being good.’ 

John smirked behind his fingers, then suddenly his leg shot out to kick her desk.

 _‘Whoohoohoo! Down Boy!_ I think, doctor, if I had the choice between glitter pens and freedom outside this miserable dump — I’d choose freedom.’

‘I am going to assume Bruce told you your release is unlikely.’

‘Yeah. Not that kindly either.’

‘John. You can’t honestly think after what you did any board would consider you fit to live in the outside world?’

Outraged, John scoffed, spit flying. _‘Murderers get released all the time!’_

‘Yes. But most are sane men who choose to be bad or make bad choices. Integration into society can be possible…for some.’

He leaned forward, pressing his thumb into his chest till it hurt. ‘But not _me?’_

‘John, you have shown little if any remorse. You don’t consider what you did wrong — your biggest upset is that you offended the Batman.’

Eyes became slits as he crinkled up his nose. ‘Yeah, well. Guilt is Bruce’s thing,’ he mumbled, more to himself than Leland. 

The doctor stiffened. He probably shouldn’t have said that. But any suspicion she might have was quickly disguised with her _imparting-righteous-wisdom-face._ It was a mask a lot of the doctors wore. He was right, gritting his teeth as her voice took on a tone he sometimes found comforting, but at other times — like now — deeply patronising:

‘Not knowing right from wrong does not make you _bad_ , but it does make you dangerous when left to make decisions on your own. When faced with outside problems, can you really trust your inner voice, John?’

‘Inner _voices_ — and they make more sense than the people out there!’ he rasped, pointing his finger accusingly at the window, where behind Gotham festered with violence and injustice. Still, damn sight more exciting than inside Dr Leland’s office.

‘Precisely.’ She paused, smiling, sure she was getting through to him. ‘And why would I let you fail out there when you can succeed in here? I am not pretending it is fair, or ideal, or where you deserve to be, but it is most likely where you need to be and _are safest._ Think about it: how many homeless people do you think die out there in Gotham city each year? _Plenty._ People who really _need_ to be in here. But it’s usually the ones who are dangerous to others — not just themselves — that end up here. It’s an injustice, John. And plenty are taken in and killed by the underworld. These criminals wouldn’t care about _John._ They wouldn’t let you have a sense of self or give you space when you needed it. They’d break you and use you, and if they couldn’t, they’d dispose of you.’

She always did this to him. Made him feel so god damn vulnerable. ‘What if I broke them first?’ he asked, his voice clear and quiet, like shards of ice tinkling before they fall.

‘John. I am not trying to hurt you,’ Leland sighed, ‘I am being realistic. I know you have fantasies about _rising to the top_ — which stems from your perceived inadequacies. We’ve talked about this. But you have to understand people in order to influence them. And you don’t understand them…because you’re not like them. You’re different. You need to accept that.’

A fowl grin twisted his face, his eyes alight with amusement. ‘So, you think the moment I walk out that door I’d scramble to be crowned infamous, or else — what — _be trampled underfoot like a duckling?’_

‘I am saying you’re naturally drawn to a certain darkness — you like to dominate — _but_ , you’ve also proved _you_ are easily influenced when you followed Harley.’

Fingers curled involuntarily into fists, growing even whiter as they clenched. He was furious. Furious because she was right.

Dr Leland didn’t even blink, far to used to her patient. She knew what was a tantrum, what was hard to hear, and what was the start of an episode destined to end in a flurry of fists and a needle. She spoke evenly, clearly trusting him as an adult to take on board what she was saying: ‘you allow others to influence you far too much. Batman. Even your good friend Bruce. There is nothing wrong with John, especially when he listens to Angel-John,’ she twinkled, and he had the sudden urge to slap her. ‘Trust in yourself to make the right choices.’

 _‘I am hearing conflicting advice here, doctor!’_ He rocked forward and his chair scuffed the carpet. ‘There’s obviously something wrong with me because _I am in an asylum_ , and by the sounds of it, unfit to mix with the normal folk — or trust any of my decent voices!’

There was a long pause, the longest yet. John scanned the room, but saw nothing, as he overturned thought after thought in his pounding head. Then suddenly, he relaxed:

‘Is Bruce unfit to mix with the norms too? He ever getting out, eh?’

Dr Leland became still, and John could tell she hadn’t expected that question. Good. It was good to know she couldn’t read him like a textbook — as she so loftily pretended. 

‘No. Not on my recommendation,’ she said plainly, unlocking her fingers.

John’s mood instantly improved. He felt like breaking into song, and although he didn’t crack a gleaming-toothed grin, his eyes lit up like a fairground.

_‘Never, ever, ever?’_

‘Yes, John.’

He turned his head away from her and let himself smile. ‘Can I show Bruce his forever room?’ he asked nicely, like a good boy.

‘If he’s willing.’

John’s smile widened. He stuck a hand out and shook her own with vigour. ‘Appreciated!’ he beamed, teeth clamped together so hard Leland thought they might break. 

She reluctantly returned his smile, though not nearly as wide or maniacal.

With a jolly stretch he patted his belly. ‘Are we done now — because I’ve not had breakfast yet?’

She gestured to her office door and watched him skip out. A faint frown replaced her smile.

***

Straps snapped tight and Bruce gasped, wakened like he’d slipped into deep water. He was beginning to sense a theme. Resigned, he lay there. Why struggle? How many more times would he awake to find himself tethered to a bed? 

The sun was shining dimly through thick white cloud. A morning wet and hollow. Vacant and uninspiring. The only colour being the last few leaves trembling in brown clusters — some orange — on branches trying to sleep. If he listened carefully, he could hear the birds singing. 

He had been dreaming about blood. His lips sucking greedily from a shapeless being, nestled like a child in its folds, as if the night sky had fallen a velvet curtain, enveloping him as he lapped. He’d liked vampires as a kid. A connoisseur of B-movie monsters: hobbling through grainy-grey forests, slithering into sewers, frightening maidens on castle balconies — the hammier the better. His father had even put on the paper masks his mother helped colour in. Chasing him around the manor like a madman. His mother hiding with him under sheets supposed to protect furniture not in use. All three acting silly till hours far past his bedtime. It was a good job they didn’t have neighbours. _Well._ Poor Alfred.

He missed them. He missed all three. He thought back to what John had said: _Of course, you’re not going to stop loving him. You can’t stop love that easily._ It was true. He couldn’t stop loving his father anymore than he could his mother. The only memories he had he wished to cherish. 

Nostrils widened, the sweet-iron of blood had stayed in his dreams. The only smell was his own sweat and the cold musk that gathers in old buildings like Arkham. No foul odours. The bats, the smells, the straps — never in his wildest dreams did he ever think he’d end up here. He’d never have thought his father would’ve turned out to be Gotham’s biggest criminal either. Life had a funny way of turning round and biting him on the ass. Bones spilling out of closets he didn’t even know he owned — which was easy when you lived in a place the size of Wayne Manor. Christ. Maybe this _was_ karma.

A small black shape fluttered overhead, landed on the wall and disappeared like smoke. More bats appeared, gently flapping and evaporated. They weren’t so bad, he guessed, when he was calm like he was now. Batman would have observed. Impartial. Catalogued his findings and drawn conclusions. So, that was what he was going to do. He’d accept them, watch them and who knows, maybe even befriend them. Maybe he’d be grateful of the company after ten years locked in a cell.

One flapped down, landing on his chest. Like two black beads, its eyes looked up at him, and he marvelled at the detail of its tiny goblin-face before it evaporated. _Psychosis in 4K._ Bruce laughed. _The first signs of madness, laughing at yourself._ Bruce laughed some more and then his expression became grave. He had to make up with John. _Your compulsion to push everyone away will do nothing only harm you._ Dr Leland's words had stung. He’d been mean. Unnecessarily so. But he didn’t want John to end up like Romane Baxter. He smelled foul — not like Baxter — but awful and not right. He’d master it. Like he’d master the bats. When he became the Batman he promised he’d never allow himself to act on fear again. He’d rather feel sad than feel afraid.

Grateful of the quiet he lay there and went over things in his mind. He felt like Tiffany was his fault, but it didn’t stop him being angry at her. All that talent corrupted by Waller. He honestly didn’t know if the Agency was behind the gala incident, but it was the best lead he had. The day of the gala was clouded in his mind, he remembered fragments, and was concerned he was adding details that weren’t there. From that day forth everything had become confused. The sequence of time had been broken, as if someone had taken the days and thrown them like playing cards into the air, numbers flashed before him, but they no longer made sense. Rewind, pause, fast forward — he wondered if this is how a bat felt when its sonar had been messed with. Cecile Horton was most likely set up by the person behind this, which begged the question: were the _museum ninjas_ too? But why? Waller obviously wanted to recruit him, shut his mouth from spilling her secrets — maybe taking his power and exploiting him as her tool was what she had planned all along. Maybe she never intended to let the Batman go. But Tiffany had said quite plainly that the Agency had an enemy. Did that mean Gotham had an enemy too? Did that same enemy want the Batman out the picture, and Waller was simply frightened of what Bruce Wayne would reveal in therapy? He knew one thing though: Waller would be back in one form or another. Something else Tiffany had implied too: the Agency could sort his psychosis out. _What did that mean?_ He might as well start calling the things he saw and smelt _his psychosis._ It’s what it was. And the bats were showing no signs of leaving him just yet. He had been given a substance that had altered his neurotransmitters. Now he had bats on the brain. _Literally._ And such a powerful substance would show up in tests. Particularly when they took his blood less than an hour after the incident. He had no choice but to trust Gordan to find it. 

He told Dr Leland _that the Agency wanted him_ when she came and sat in the chair at the side of his bed, but she didn’t reply with anything tangible, appearing quite unaffected by anything he was saying. She undid the straps, asked him how his side felt, avoided his questions and apologised for Tiffany’s visit, which she maintained she was unable to prevent. Then she told him some news he had expected, but nevertheless made his blood boil:

‘Our legal team met with yours. It was decided you are _non compos mentis_ and thus unfit to stand in a court of law. Your estate is still yours, but anything you say regarding its handling will be discounted. You no longer have access to your fortune. I am sorry, this may seem cruel, but it means you will not be dragged out and made a spectacle for the whole of Gotham. In part it is to protect you.’

Bruce lay silent for a while, determined to let his anger pass before he spoke. When he finally did, his voice was flat, but controlled: ‘and when Gordan finds the drug that caused this, what then?’

Brown hands rested one on top of the other as she thought. ‘You have seen the footage. Did you ever think you were capable of doing something like that?’

Answering questions with questions. It was the sort of infuriating thing John did. Like a parent influencing a child, Bruce wondered if she was where John got it from. ‘Physically or mentally?’ he asked. When she didn’t answer him, he continued: ‘I liked sports in my spare time. Martial arts. I can hold my own well enough. Mentally? No. But drugs can cause powerful behavioural changes.’

‘Bruce. I think it would be better if you stopped pretending.’

‘What? I never said my symptoms had dissipated.’

‘And what are those symptoms?’

‘My senses are telling me things are there that aren’t real because my neurotransmitters are compromised.’

Soft brown eyes gazed sympathetically across at him. ‘The arm movements, the clicking — don’t bats click as part of sonar?’

He froze, too slow to disguise the horror that lit his face. This was a psychologist. Had he just confessed to being Batman? He hadn’t been flapping or clicking — _had he?_ Feeling his face grow hot with embarrassment he turned away, truly mortified at the idea of acting like such a lunatic. The press would orgasm if they thought they could film that. _Jesus._

‘Are you ready to move to your room? If so, I think John would like to help,’ she said kindly, being gentle enough of spirit not to press him further. He wasn’t ready.

He felt his face — his cheeks had cooled — and nodded.

***

Bruce wondered how long he had been out of it, because his wound seemed distinctly better. Dr Leland let him have a shower and even gave him a bar of soap to keep on his person, although she stressed — a little hysterically he thought — that under _no circumstances_ should he _give it John._ He promised with a stiff nod of the head, trying to imagine the horrors of a lathered-up John evading capture as he squelched out of hands, sliding off walls like a greased seal pup. Once alone he burst out laughing. He wished he’d known John at school. They would’ve rocked on alright.

He’d asked to spend some time in Lounge A, expecting John to be there. When he wasn’t, Bruce thought better than trying to mix with A Set and simply sat down in the same seat he’d sat in nearly three years ago. It was still shiny on the edges of the armrests, where grease had burnished the fabric from inmates’ hands. He checked his pocket, grateful the soap was still there. That guy was still circling the pillar. _Billy_. The sockpuppet still trembling on that guy's hand. _Arnold._ (A hostile middle-finger had pulled the puppet’s monobrow down to frown at him.) And two guys playing chess. One new and the other was Zasz. There was a distinctly sick smell in the low-lit room, but the foulest odour was coming from the man with scars decorating his bald head like a tally in a prison cell. A smell curdled with sex, blood and death. Zasz looked at him once and turned away as if he was beneath his notice. Fine by Bruce. The bats flying by the murdering rapist began flashing green. More bats fluttered over Zasz’s head, becoming a storm of emerald smoke. Bruce blinked and quickly turned the TV on as a distraction.

The headlines had calmed a little, although his name popped up repeatedly. It was the same old story, but with the addition of different Gotham professionals either voicing their opinion or refusing comment. Shaky testimonies of witnesses too, which were harder to watch, as well as accounts of his character from some of his employees. Some generous, while others fabricated lone encounters of him outside elevators and such — curling his lip or looking like he was about to bark. A woman had come forward too, pretending to be one of his courtesans — which wasn’t true, because he’d never had sex with a woman since college — and broke into lavish accounts on how he liked to take her from behind. Snarling like a beast and biting her hard until he came or she began to bleed. The woman felt entitled to compensation. Real news-rag nonsense. Batman made the headlines too — or rather his absence did. It hadn’t gone unnoticed. People were asking questions and depressingly the crime rate had risen. More looting, stabbings and gang activity. He couldn’t watch anymore and promptly turned it off. Why raise his heart rate when he was stuck in here unable to respond?

A bat fluttered by and landed on his shoulder. Bruce thought it trying to comfort him and made note.

‘Hello, Bruce!’

He startled and the bats scattered, fluttering down again to circle John like he was something interesting. Bruce didn’t know what to say and settled for a simple: ‘Hello.’

Collapsing like a heavy sack into the other armchair, John let one leg hang over the side, bouncing it as he scrutinised him with amusement.

He slid a clammy hand into his hair and out again, glancing at the pale face opposite, whose curved lips could mean a number of things. He spoke gruffly, but sincerely: ‘I owe you an apology, John. I was rude.’

‘Bruce, _Bruce!’_ A white hand breezed up into a nonchalant flap of the wrist. ‘I am not as _fragile_ as Dr Leland thinks,’ said John with a twinkle.

Eyebrows raised hopefully as his heart skipped a beat, and John nodded in encouragement.

‘No one has ever thought enough about me to tell me to — you know — _fish_ off!’ John leaned forward, hand on chest. His knobbly knees suddenly in a tangle as he rearranged himself to get closer to Bruce, speaking in a low and meaningful whisper. ‘People try to pacify me or put me down. People are rude…but their rudeness must _honestly be_ how they feel…because when they pull back their lips, their smiles are always fake.’ His faced flickered briefly with malice before his eyebrows knitted together. An expression Bruce knew to mean John was searching for the right words. ‘It’s true,’ said John slowly, voiced hushed. ‘I _hated_ you for a full three days. And then I _really_ thought about it. You don’t _need me_ now like you needed me in the pact. It takes guts to tell a friend to go fish. I guess it means you respect me. I guess _you want_ this friendship to work — or else you really do just want me to go away?’ 

While saying the last few words John’s eyes had widened fearfully, like a child who had looked behind in a busy street and realised their parents were no longer there. Bruce grimaced, but was quick to reply, delighted by his friend’s desire to reconcile. ‘No. I don’t want you to go away, John,’ he said firmly, ‘ _I do_ want our friendship to work.’

_‘Two crazy guys working it out!’_

‘I am sorry I said you deserved to be here. I didn’t mean it like that. And for what it’s worth: I deserve to be here too.’ With bitterness he apologised, sweeping his hands through his hair and laying them to rest on his knees. He looked at his palms with disgust, wondering if a gypsy would find a lunatic-line or an unlucky-arsehole-line. His mouth crept up in a smirk.

‘Dr L said you’d seen _it.’_

‘Yeah.’

John grinned uncontrollably, his lips pulled tight enough to reveal pinkish gums. ‘Oh, _c’mon!_ You’re not even a little wanting-to-go-howl-at-the-moon! It was god damn unbelievable! _Epic!_ I’ve been in Arkham most of my life and that’s straight up into the top ten most bat-shit-crazy things my peepers have ever witnessed!’

‘John. Not helping.’ Bruce rubbed the back of his neck again, unable to shake off the feeling his younger self would have been proud of John’s comment. Then he whispered, barely audible, _‘Jesus Christ.’_

There was a quack of laughter, John’s whistling snickers momentarily drawing every eye in the room. John waited until the other patients were no longer watching, before turning on Bruce with a grin so wide he seemed less human and more like a carnival mask. ‘YOU DO! Don’t you, Bruce? _I knew it!’_

He felt sick, but strangely not as ashamed to admit this to John as he would another. ‘You have to understand the rage I had to shoulder as a kid,’ he stammered, ‘it was a constant companion…and the idea that _this_ is _not_ drug induced…I can’t comprehend it.’ Bruce felt his stomach tighten and swallowed the stomach acid that had caught his throat back down with a shudder. Eyes on the floor, smouldering, like he could burn a hole through and escape himself.

‘Oh, I know. _I know.’_ John gave him a quick sympathy-pat. ‘I feel you, buddy. _Haaa!_ All those shots in the press. Glam-Bruce and his playboy ways, _if they only knew! Right?_ Part of you must want to rub it in their _stupid-I-know-all-about-you-Bruce faces!’_

‘I am not proud of it, John,’ rasped Bruce, frowning deeper. ‘Any kind of _beast_ within was supposed to be taken by the horns, disciplined — a crusade for justice. _That was the whole point!_ To take the monster and make good with it. A sentinel for Gotham. A Gargoyle. A knight! Not whatever the hell _that_ was…whatever that was… _was insane.’_ A sigh shuddered from him and he felt forced to cradle his head in his hand.

‘Do you feel insane?’ asked John, pausing reflectively with his index finger on his lip.

‘No…not exactly. But it’s not going away.’ Bruce paused, unsure whether he should continue. He looked across at John’s well-meaning gaze and felt encouraged. ‘I am not just seeing, I am _feeling_ too,’ he admitted, ‘I remember the taste of that man’s blood in my mouth…and… _I want more.’_ He laughed harsh, as if he had grit in is throat. ‘If that ain’t bat-shit, then what is?’

‘And I stink.’

‘John — I didn’t mean it.’

‘No. I mean I literally stink. What do I smell of?’

Bruce blinked repeatedly, panicked that his symptoms were so obvious.

His friend rolled his eyes, tutting. ‘I get it: you’re smelling and seeing phantoms. Some of your bat-shit symptoms. Wait to you start hearing stuff — most of the guys in this room do.’

‘You to?’ asked Bruce cautiously, although he knew the answer.

John nodded. ‘Dr Leland says as long as I don’t follow the _command voice_ , I’ll be okay. Well,’ he sniggered, ‘mostly other people will be okay.’

‘Command Voice?’

‘It’s a shame, because I agree with him a lot of the time. He can be _really funny_ too. I thought he was my conscience for a while — _you know, like Jiminy Cricket_ — but apparently consciences don’t tell you to replace the salt with _washing powder_.’ John rested his head behind his hands, a dreamy smile coloured his face like he was remembering a holiday at the beach or something.

‘This when you did chores in the canteen?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘They allow you to work much in the canteen anymore?’

‘Na-huh.’

‘Did you replace the sugar with anything?’

‘ _Mmmm._ Salt.’

‘Yeah. Sounds about right.’ Despite himself, Bruce grinned. ‘What? Was it supposed to symbolise washing their mouths out or something? Rude people don’t deserve sweetness, huh?’

‘Bruce. You know me so well.’ Pallid fingers reached across and gently pinched his chin like he was a school boy. ‘We shouldn’t keep secrets. We’re friends. I want us to be honest. Even if that honesty is —,’ John dropped his voice to sound like Batman, ‘— _I am not telling you, John. I don’t trust that smiling clown face!’_

 _‘Honesty?’_ he chuckled dryly. ‘Well, John, I’ll do my best.’

‘Trusting you is hard for me to, you know. _You get that_ , right?’

Bruce looked across at the expression on John’s face, intense with earnest. ‘Yeah. I do. And I am guilty. I’ve told you a thousand times.’

‘No. You _feel_ guilty, Bruce,’ John corrected. ‘And I know you don’t do well with _feels.’_

Shaking his head, he sighed. Alfred, Selina, Dr Leland — now John was telling him he was emotionally frigid.

‘Bruce?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Your nose is screwed up even now. What do I smell of?’

Obeying, he shut is eyes and allowed the scent to wash over his mind. ‘I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s like a medical smell. And a scent that I know I know from somewhere.’ Blue eyes snapped open, angry he was treating his psychosis like an ability. ‘It doesn’t matter, John. It’s all nonsense out of my head anyway, ’he murmured disgustedly. ‘I am sure Dr Leland will go to great lengths prodding and poking and trying to find out what it all means.’ Bruce watched one of the bats crawl up onto John’s hair, curling round and around like it was making a nest. ‘Do you want to know why I was strapped down again?’ he asked plainly.

John shrugged. ‘Sure.’

‘The Agency paid me a visit.’

_‘What!’_

‘Shhh.’ Bruce glanced over the side of the armchair, not wanting to be overheard. ‘I think they might have caused this, John. They were trying to recruit me into one of their programmes. They wanted everything from me: house, money, obedience — my self-respect. I should have known Waller wouldn’t let sleeping dogs lie.’ 

‘The programme Harley’s in?’

‘I don’t know, John. But, yeah. I think so.’

A white fist slammed the arm rest. _‘Bastards!’_

‘Tiffany came to deliver the news. She’s with the Agency now. Waller’s puppet good and proper.’

_‘That’s horrible, Bruce!’_

Without meaning to he began talking, spilling his thoughts in a hushed rasp. He told John about Tiffany, about how he was scared he was to blame, that he had only been trying to protect her for Lucius. He spoke about his theories, the museum ninjas, the stupidity of it all, Horton’s book Dr Leland wouldn’t let him see. He babbled on, grateful John was a good listener: tilting his head and nodding like he really cared about the words he was saying. He shared memories of his father — good memories — his mother, Alfred. Happy memories of the three of them. ‘…I can’t imagine what he must think of me. I know he’s seen it. What happens when Gordan tracks him down? What if he’s locked up because of me? I need to know that he doesn’t hate me. That he doesn’t think everything we achieved together was just… _crazy._ I never wanted to betray him — but he left me alone with Batman and look what happened. If the Agency didn’t cause this, then who? _And what if no one did!_ Do the mad ever know they’re mad?’

‘Bruce, can I do something?’ John asked, putting his arms out. 

‘ _Erm._ What?’

‘C’mon, buddy. Put’em out.’

Hesitantly, Bruce did as he was told and John closed round him like a venus fly trap.

‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about you, buddy boy,’ John whispered, closing his eyes serenely, ‘is that _you need a hug_ , even when you don't think you do.’ 

He tried to pull away after a couple of breaths, but John wouldn’t let him, squeezing tighter. Eventually he relaxed, shut his eyes and allowed his head to gently roll against John’s neck. His breathing slowed and he lost his worries in the dark calm of John’s collarbone. Shoulders un-hunched and the tension hot in his body for days left him. When their embrace ended Bruce opened his eyes, feeling a little drunk, like after a deep meditation. 

‘A bit better?’

‘Yeah. Thanks, John.’ Bruce looked about himself dreamily and then blushed fiercely. The bat nestled in John’s hair was grooming a small erection. The other bats surrounding John likewise engaged in kinky flutterings. Bruce coughed and quickly looked away.

Over in the far corner Zasz was looking disgustingly at them across his chess board. Bruce had trained himself to lip-read and didn’t very much like what Zasz was saying. ‘Crazy fags,’ the scarred lips quivered violently, ‘I never thought Wayne was straight. Bet he gets waxed — when he’s not chewing on authors.’ Zasz’s chess partner put his head back and the whole room heard them both titter nastily.

‘What’s he saying?’

‘Nothing. Just sit down.’

John’s eyebrows pulled tight as his lips pulled wide. He got up with a spring and headed towards the chess table.

‘Hey, Zasz. Whatcha doin'?’

‘What you think, clown?’

John hovered annoyingly over Zasz’s shoulder. ‘Why do dragons sleep all day?’

‘To avoid you — go away.’

Smiling like a tramp who’d just peed in a millionaire’s shoes, John strolled away with a nonchalant roll of the shoulders. Zasz shot out of his seat.

‘Give it back!’

John turned his hands out, showing empty milky palms.

‘Where is it _creep_ or so help me!’

Zasz looked like he was ready to kill, but John mumbled, _‘Mey Mike Mo Munt Mnights,’_ worming his tongue till something black and slick with spit peeked out of his mouth. 

Zasz’s voice rumbled deep with menace, ‘I won’t ask again.’ Most men would have cowed, given deferent apologies and maybe even soiled their pants. Not John.

Swelling his eyes like a cartoon, John spat the black knight like a bullet and it hit Zasz square between the eyes, bouncing off the bald scalp and rolling near Billy. With a snarl, Zasz swung his arm with force, he was fast, but John was faster. Nimbly ducking from the storm of punches, each time springing up, making a noise like Woody Woodpecker. Both Bruce and the guards rushed to the scene. For some reason Billy picked up the chess piece, gloopy with John-spit, and went to put it in his mouth. Forced to circumvent, Bruce grabbed Billy’s face like he would a dog and prised the knight out of his jaws. Yelling, Billy drummed furiously on his head. Bruce passed him roughly to an orderly and deftly deflected Zasz’s fist that would’ve hit John square. The scarred knuckles bent back to hit him this time and Bruce grabbed Zasz’s arm, bending it with all his might back to Zasz’s chest. The murderer’s ice-eyes swelled with awe, aghast at Bruce’s strength. Bruce felt Zasz’s pulse flutter, the hammer at the back of his nose intensified as saliva pooled in his mouth at the anticipation of bleeding out the monster in front of him. Sucking the final spasms of the wretch’s life down his throat. He resisted. Finding the will in Batman’s impervious glare. 

‘Your chess piece,’ he glowered.

Zasz wrenched his arm away and Bruce let him. Then he snatched the chess piece from his hand. ‘You keep that clown away from me. I have a spot just the size to mark that creep on. You don’t want a spot on here too, Wayne!’

‘No need. He’s sorry he took the piece.’

John, who had been watching all this like a hungry jackal, suddenly gawked. _‘Am not!’_

He held up a hand to silence him.

Zasz shook his head, disgusted. ‘Crazy couple of fags.’ And walked away.

Like a flip had been switched the moment Zasz’s backside made contact with his chair, John skipped over to the staffs’ screen at the other side of the lounge. ‘I want to show Bruce his room now. Dr Leland said I could.’

The guards looked uneasily at each other, wanting to make sure there was no need to hit the alarm. One gave a stiff nod to Bruce in thanks, and he returned it. Following John into the corridor he thanked any god that was listening for not letting another gala-incident happen. He could control this. He had to.


	5. Conspiracy (part 2)

Alone in the corridor, Bruce rounded on John in fury. ‘Zasz does not look like the kind of guy you want to piss off! _Why did you have to antagonise him?_ I want to keep my head down. And so should you.’

His friend rolled his eyes and forced a clownish hiccough, clearly disparaging of this strategy. ‘Bruce, Bruce! That’s not how it works.’ John broke into a jingle, conducting with both fingers: _‘First whiff of trouble you give back double._ Less whiny-Wayne-appeasement more Batman’s-gonna-slap-you-silly. Got it?’

He slapped his hand to his forehead and stifled a sigh. It was a miracle John hadn’t been killed in his years at Arkham — and yet. Bruce thought back to the fight with John in Ace Chemicals, the Fun House, _hell_ — the way he leapt on Bane. Maybe John was right: it wouldn’t do John justice to think of him as fragile. Fragile like a grenade perhaps, armoured shell till you pull the pin wrong. _What had Zasz called John?_ A tornado.

‘Because,’ John continued with relish, ‘when they find out you are _the bat,_ it’s only a matter of time before one of the super thugs — like Zasz — is gonna want to prove themselves. _They’re all going to wanna fight you, Bruce.’_ John nibbled his lower lip, cackling, like he couldn’t wait to see Bruce punching through a throng of madmen.

Despairingly, Bruce threw up his hands. ‘Great.’

‘Better keep doing them crunches,’ crooned John, giving Bruce’s belly a quick poke. ‘Press ups! _Oh!_ I could sit on you — be your added resistance! And before you ask — no — there is no gym or weights or anything that would allow the inmates to beef up.’ There was a giggle, rising maniacally till it stopped abruptly. ‘But that doesn’t mean _we can’t improvise!’_ Another giggle. ‘Come let me show you.’

Wondering what the hell John had planned, Bruce followed, unsure of why they had come to stand outside John’s cell.

‘This is your room, John.’

 _‘Yeeess. Mr obvious,’_ John chimed tartly, hands on hips. ‘I am teaching _essential-Arkham-survival-skills_ here!’

His friend began jumping up and down, his pout becoming increasingly like a caricature, till the door clicked, then John’s face flashed with a satisfied smile. He opened the door and invited Bruce into his cell with a bow. ‘Doors are always locked. Gotta get the guards’ attention,’ he said, gesturing to the cameras outside in the corridor. ‘They decide if you go in, if they’re gonna lock it, when you coming out.’ John shook his fist angrily and slammed the door. _‘But!_ Your room is the closest thing you’re gonna get to the peace and quiet you enjoyed in Wayne Manor parlour or whatever.’ He leant against the far wall, perfectly cool. ‘Learn to love your room — let no one else in, _except me.’_

John’s cell was more or less what Bruce thought it would be. He’d only ever glimpsed it once over John’s shoulder, when he first paid him a visit. It was bleak then, but truly dismal now. He guessed the tiles had once been white, but all had faded to a grime-green. Pallid, sickly scales. Most were chipped, and the wall looked like it had been shot with square holes where some had fallen — or been removed. Bruce wondered how many patients’ fingernails had broken off in the grouting. The mirror, sealed into the wall, had been smashed where a dark line separated black spots and grease smears. John had moved himself to sit on a neat fold of rough woollen blankets. The bed looked like an infirmary cot from the 40’s. Wheels soldered off. John was watching him inspect his room, his face totally still. A bat flapped and Bruce glanced over at John’s hand. Beside the pale fingers was a miniature version of himself, but dressed in a suit. Doll-Bruce looked like he had recently taken a beating: seams torn, peach-face grubby from where he had been thrown to the floor and stamped on — and then carefully stitched back together. His button eyes were mismatched, but the replacement had been centred perfectly. He guessed the scars were honest, the _same stitch_ even. The suit he feared would never reflect him again. He just wished John hadn’t made him smile. A straight line would have been better — not an upside-down smile. Just a straight line. That’d be honest.

‘Now what’s the first thing you notice?’ asked John in a teacherly tone.

‘The camera. It’s recording video only.’

‘Bingo! I can yell _Bruce Wayne is Batman_ at the top of my lungs and they wouldn’t hear a thing.’

‘Please don’t.’

‘And they’re not allowed to aim it at the toilet — thankfully that’s illegal — the camera has poor range, which you can exploit.’

There was a creak as John slid off the bed and strolled over to the toilet — rust stained around the pipes — and worked his fingers till he had removed one of the tiles. _‘Behold!’_ Behind it someone had carved out a little hidey-hole that John had stuffed tight with things that would have no doubt been otherwise confiscated. 

A pallid hand invited him to root. Bruce leaned in. John’s secret stash consisted of some superglue, paperclips, five coloured pencils tied tight with an elastic band — all sharpened and probably intended as a weapon — some lipstick, a lighter and a packet of bubblegum with a duck on it. 

Bruce took the gum and read aloud: ‘Bubbleduck. Why is this secret?’

‘I love that stuff, Bruce!’ chimed John, dancing on his toes. ‘If any of the orderlies knew I had it and I’d been _bad_ — they’d take it away.’ John took the packet out of his hand and fretted with it, blowing his cheeks out. ‘Oh. _Oh. He’s your friend._ There you go Bruce!’

Bruce rolled his eyes. ‘John, I am not after your gum.’

‘No. No. You’ve had a hard couple of weeks. Take the duck.’ 

‘Really…?’

‘I insist.’

Not wanting to offend, he took the silver foil offered to him and placed the strip of gum in his mouth. John took the last remaining strip and popped it into his own mouth too, chewing with his eyes shut like he was sampling caviar. The entire packet could have only cost a dollar.

‘What flavour is this?’ Bruce gagged. His taste buds were assaulted by something sour-sweet and vanilla. 

‘Cola Sundae,’ answered John dreamily. Then he blew a great big bubble, swelling bigger and bigger till it popped and John dragged the stringy residue back inside his mouth. 

‘Impressive.’

John shrugged. ‘Harley taught me.’ Another balloon, another pop. ‘What Batman got?’

‘I never learnt to blow bubbles. Never really had gum.’ 

‘Did you even _have_ a childhood?’ asked John witheringly.

 _‘Yes!’_ he hissed, ‘until my parents were gunned down in front of me. _Yes, John, I did!’_

White nose crinkled, clearly sceptical that Bruce had ever been anything other than a frigid stiff since the day he was born.

‘Tell you what,’ piped John with a twinkle in his olive eye, ‘Simon says…squat.’

‘No, John.’

‘C’mon. You need the exercise. _The stitches needs it.’_

He ran a hand down his side. Good healing flesh had kept him alive and kicking when most would have been rotting in a box by now. Batman had had to fight on with worse. Oh, what was the harm? He gently bent his knees and joined John in a squat. The wound wasn’t all that bad, even after his unexpected brawl with Zasz. Adrenaline aside, it was good to stretch it out.

John flexed his right arm and slid it up his sleeve and under his t-shirt. Bruce copied. John did the same with his left and Bruce copied that too. Next John made both elbows peek out of his sleeves.

‘John, what are we doing?’

‘Shhhh. Simon says.’

The pale arms began rotating with such considered precision that Bruce mirrored, watching intently, trying to understand how this exercise would benefit anyone. Then John began flapping with gusto. Bruce automatically copied — and at that precise moment the cell door opened and Dr Leland appeared accompanied by Jim Gordan. 

The duck sounds John had begun trumpeting caught in his throat as he rolled backwards, arms trapped within his t-shirt, laughing so hard no sound could be heard apart from a strangled whine. Panicking, Bruce wrestled his arms out of his sleeves, tearing the seams as he straightened under Gordan’s flushed stare.

Dr Leland coughed delicately. ‘The commissioner’s here to see you.’

‘Wayne,’ said Gordan tartly, like he’d rather not.

Face as red as a slapped bottom, Bruce left John — who seemed paralysed as he lay vibrating with uncontrolled hilarity — and followed his comrade out. Fresh howls of laughter could be heard as the door shut behind them. 

***

Escorted to a private room and manacled to the table like before, Bruce was left alone with Gordan. A dread settled between his shoulders and he felt like he was shivering, although he wasn’t, as if mercury ran wild under his skin. He knew the commissioner well and his comrade's whitened face said it all. Eyes not wanting to meet his, lip crooked with disgust. He feared Jim was his friend no longer. His secret was out.

Bruce sat. Perfectly calm and silent.

‘Really? You can’t think of anything to say?’ Gordan huffed. ‘The silver-tongued billionaire playboy? Inside Arkham, outside Arkham. Funded a homicidal nut-job mayor who’s one of his best friends! In and out of bed with the Agency —.’ Faltering with his teeth on his lip, the commissioner took a long uneven breath. Then he looked Bruce straight in the eye. ‘Who are you, Mr Wayne?’ murmured Gordan quietly, rubbing his temple, his cheek, his chin. When Bruce didn’t answer he asked again, anger spiking his voice:

‘Please, Wayne, who are you?’

The dread spread, much like the cold of lake water, though his heart kept its steady beat. The cold calmed him, and for a moment he felt like he did on Gotham’s rooftops: dancing the feral steps that ended one of two ways. In life or in death. It was this cool that made his mouth move and for the last time he heard Bruce the Playboy trying to defend himself, use his charm to slip from the noose closing inevitably around his neck. 

‘Honestly, Commissioner, I am not so sure,’ he said. The innocence in his voice could have fooled even himself. ‘The name Wayne was so immutable to me as a child. The pride I felt _being a Wayne_ …and then my father…the accusations…and…’ Bruce swallowed, pausing for effect. He had to try. ‘I am in here for a terrible, ghastly, crazy act — it was horrible. Insane. I still can’t believe it happened — but _I don’t feel crazy._ I feel like I am under the influence of something that isn’t me. The crazy happens, and when it does it feels like a drug. Something external. Just like the last time.’

The terrier moustache lifted, and Bruce could see the edges of Gordan’s yellow teeth in a bitter sneer. ‘Yeah, well, we’ve tested your blood — two, three, four times — thrown money at it from every department. And there ain’t nothing there that shouldn’t be.’ 

Jim’s eyes glowered and Bruce shut his own tight. His worst fear had been confirmed.

‘Maybe the substance can’t be detected with conventional tests,’ he said hollowly.

‘No. We’ve treated it to the works. Believe me.’

‘Maybe…maybe I was hypnotised. _Mind control!’_

‘Have you any idea how ridiculous that sounds?’

‘Subliminal messaging… _the Agency_ …if it can be done, they’d find a way to do it. _They want me._ Maybe…’

 _‘You’re possessed and all this is supernatural!’_ snapped Gordan. He sat stiffly, looking at Bruce the same way he looked at Harvey the night he was sent down. ‘Face it, Wayne, you’ve cracked.’

Before he knew it, his voice burst with desperation: ‘CHECK AGAIN! _I’ll pay!’_

‘NO! _Wayne!_ You won’t.’ Gordan slammed his fist on the table. The square glasses trembled and for a moment he could see his own face blur in the shadow of reflections. Like a ghost. ‘It’s over,’ Gordan rasped, ‘we’ve — they’ve — asked to compare your blood to that spear. I’ve been shining the Batsignal every night for the last three weeks as soon as the sun was down.’

‘And did the big guy show up?’ asked Bruce plainly. He didn’t know why he was playing like he could win this game, but he was. Instinct, maybe. The last ass-licks of a silver-tongued animal, backed into death’s corner.

‘What do you think?’

Bruce didn’t answer.

The commissioner’s eyes burned into his own and for a moment he almost looked away. ‘I want to hear it from you. Not some forensic guy I only see once a year at a Christmas party.’ Gordan’s voice cracked a little and Bruce’s insides twisted, ‘Wayne: _Are. You. Batman?’_ The killing blow had been swung.

‘I don’t know, maybe he’s dead,’ his silver-tongue turned to snark. _‘Maybe he’s on vacation!_ Maybe he’s in a bubble bath surrounded by candles reading _The Wayne Arkham Connection_ like everyone else in this god damn city!’

‘WAYNE!’

 _‘Yes, Jim!_ I gave my _life_ to Gotham and it looks like _I gave it my sanity too!’_

‘I don’t believe it.’ Gordan turned from him, too much of a man to let him see the emotion constricting his throat. Jim’s disappointment felt like a knife slid into his heart.

‘Well, you better,’ he murmured scornfully. His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. ‘Because the whole of Gotham is going to be in on it.’ Bruce laughed, ‘I will have actually achieved the impossible: I will be more notorious, more hated, more talked about than my father. The last Wayne! … _what a fucking legacy.’_

Gordan turned back to stare at him, the blood drained from his face.

‘Who are you? How many masks do you have? Who I worked with for the last 6 years — was he even real? _Was any of it real!_ Or was Batman just a figment dreamt up by a crazy!’ Gordan leaned forward, his words leaving him in a pained hiss: _‘You know what this is going to do to me and my people?_ We survived Waller for Christ’s sake! But making allegiances with nut-jobs who _vampirise_ members of the public is NOT going to stand.’

Bruce sat still as stone, deadpan like Batman. Behind his glasses Gordan’s eyes had narrowed, thin slits glistening like wet coal. ‘I trusted you,’ he rasped. ‘I looked up to you. I trusted you with the lives of my men!’

 _‘And you disliked Bruce Wayne._ I get it!’ Bruce went to put his hand through his hair and instead the chains pulled tight with a _clink._ Bruce let them fall to his lap, speaking honestly: ‘and I am sorry to disappoint you. For the record: I never liked Bruce Wayne that much either. His mask was superficial glib hiding a chasm of loneliness and turmoil.’

‘What — now you’re feeling sorry for yourself?’

‘Yes, Jim, I am feeling sorry for myself. I’ve pushed everyone who was or could have ever been close to me away, and now I can’t even continue the one thing that kept me alive: saving Gotham.’ He pulled the chains tight again, needing to feel the pain cutting into his wrists. _‘I would have given my life for this city, Jim!’_

Jim’s eyes glittered behind his glasses. ‘Yeah,’ he growled softly, ‘but would you ever have killed for it?’ 

Bruce couldn’t answer, his eyes widened a little and Jim continued. His words simmered, hurt hardened with malice:

‘I always knew Batman had the capacity to kill, and I thought if he ever did, it would be for a noble reason — a last resort to save people from some monster. Not because he ripped through someone like A RABID DOG!’ 

‘What do you mean: killed?’

‘He’s dead, Wayne. Romane Baxter is dead.’

The words should have hit him like a freight train. But they didn’t. He should have sunk to his knees, wailing in grief, trying to pierce his heart for betraying the promise he made to Gotham. But he didn’t. He should have looked Gordan in the eye, tears staining his vision, and found the courage needed to tremble in a broken voice that _he was sorry._ But he couldn’t. Because he didn’t feel remorse. He didn’t feel anything, except a cold satisfaction that he’d got the job done in the end. Lusting after more blood leached from the condemned and unforgivable.

When he failed to react Gordan blinked, numb with horror. ‘My god. You’re not even sorry.’

‘Jim…’

‘Don’t ever call me that again.’

‘Commissioner, I am sorry…’

‘No. We’re finished. I can’t bring you to stand in a court of law. Your Dr Leland has seen to that.’

‘Please hear me —.’

‘NO!’ Gordan’s voice rung long after his moustached mouth had stopped moving. The room, that seemed so much like inside a cupboard draw, appeared to shrink. Bruce pulled the chain tighter under the table, twisting it around his wrists. A knife in his heart. Suddenly Gordan spoke, cool and level, but the words jolted Bruce:

‘What have you done with Alfred Pennyworth?’

_‘What!’_

‘He left your employment. Why?’

He shook his head, the cold tightening his neck. ‘Where is Alfred?’

‘Why did he leave you, Wayne?’ Gordan looked across, shoulders hunched, his body recoiling from him.

Steadily Bruce answered, the drip-drip of sweat running past his Adam's apple, ‘we argued…he wanted me to give up Batman and I wouldn’t.’

‘That stung, huh?’ Gordan didn’t sneer, just stared him down. ‘That got the old blood boiling? You threw one of your fits then too, uh, Wayne?’

‘What are you talking about!’ he spluttered. Panic sored through his veins, his sweat suddenly electric. ‘He packed his suitcase and left — I haven’t seen him since.’

‘The place he was supposed to be living in was empty. The property was bought in your name though.’

Gordan told him the address, pulled out some pictures and showed him an empty house with a manicured garden and sitting room that looked like a showroom. Well kept, but clearly un-lived in. 

‘Sure — I bought him that place ages ago,’ he spat, ‘in case he needed a vacation!’ Bruce ground his teeth, livid he was being accused.

‘Never got there, though, did he?’ rumbled Gordan, stuffing the pictures back into his trench coat. ‘No one has seen sight nor sound of him. Cleaners don’t even know what he looks like. No money has entered or left his account. Phone not in use for months. Hasn’t left the country, or the city. All trails stop after he was rumoured to have left your services.’

The pounding in his head had begun, the bats circled feverishly, perhaps as distressed as he was. Bruce shook his head back and forth, never stopping, as if shaking would rewind Gordan’s words. ‘Not possible,’ he quavered. ‘Have you checked…’ and Bruce listed a hundred and one places Alfred could be. But Gordan shook his head, adamant.

‘Yes, Wayne. Your butler vanished the night he left and _my money_ is on you chomping down —.’

‘I DIDN’T _EAT_ ALFRED!’ he screamed, yanking the chain so hard the table pulled against the bolts securing it to the floor. He was on his feet, trembling. The pressure in his head swelled as blood began to run down his nose. He wouldn’t let the bats take him. Alfred had to be found.

Gordan was on his feet too, his face in his. ‘WELL, HE DIDN’T VANISH HIMSELF!’ he roared back.

Immediately the door opened.

Guards, nurses and Dr Leland rushed in — the whole of Arkham suddenly at his elbows. Bruce pulled the chain even tighter. He could taste his own blood running over his lips, and he automatically licked it inside his mouth. His vision was tear stained now, the beat in his head like a soldier’s drum.

‘A half dose.’ He heard Dr Leland say.

Bruce showed the nurse his neck and let him slide the needle into a vein. Dr Leland gestured and they untethered him from the table, keeping his wrists shackled together. Gordan was just a blurred outline. He couldn’t see the expression on his face. Just his glasses. Dr Leland gently guided him out the room and through corridors, three muscular orderlies at her call. There was a whine and a fierce panting like a dog. Bruce realised it was his own breath and tried to fight it. He felt like his head was going to float away or explode.

‘You’re doing so well. Keep going.’

Bruce obeyed and walked slowly, letting the doctor guide him with her hand on his elbow. An itch began to creep over his skin, the bats no longer visible as anything other than black spots flashing across his vision. He felt his fingers lengthen and cried out.

‘Shhh. Keep going.’

He sobbed, _‘I didn’t eat Alfred.’_

Arkham’s stained windows flanked the walkway. The tiled floor flashed and he couldn’t tell which were white and which were black. Closing his eyes tight, in case he caught sight of his reflection, he shuffled, in the mercy of Dr Leland’s guiding hand. Eventually she led him inside a cell, that he later would come to recognise as his own. She helped lay him on the bed, pulled a chair near and sat by him. The guards hovered at the open door. 

She waited until his breaths, like strangled hiccoughs, calmed. ‘There. I want you to choose: do you want medication to help you sleep or do you want to try and ride this one out?’

He dare not look down, sure his hands were melting into wings. The black spots flashed about the cell like a storm. ‘I need to find Alfred.’ He swallowed. ‘He left me…and now…I need to find him.’

‘Shhh. You can _help others_ find him,’ she said, squeezing his hand. ‘First thing tomorrow, I promise. Now, you need to choose: sleep or ride it out?’

He didn’t want to spend a moment longer like this, frightened of what would happen if he let himself stay awake. Dr Leland was right: he did make clicking sounds. 

‘Put me to sleep,’ he choked.

The doctor nodded, her brown eyes round with sympathy. ‘Dr Crane,’ she called gently.

A gangly man with straw-blond hair came forward.

‘I stole your phone,’ gasped Bruce, shutting his eyes as wings flashed in front of and behind his eyes.

‘You did,’ replied Crane with a smile, ‘very clever of you to.’ Once measured out, his long fingers flicked the fluid in the syringe. ‘Just a scratch, now. There.’ Crane stood back, smiling kindly. Behind his well-spoken tone lay the sunshine-timber of a southern accent. Bruce liked it. He smiled too, wide and sloppy, suddenly feeling wonderful. Like he was sinking into pillows made of lambs’ wool. He sighed…drifting on a lake as warm and cosy as his cot had been. Drifting on and on, Crane and Leland’s coos soothing him to sleep like a lullaby. Some lucid part of him grateful that he had had the presence of mind to choose how he ended today’s wreckage. No straps. He would master the bats…he had to.

Morning came, or rather early afternoon came. There he lay in the soft nest of blankets, not wanting to leave the tranquil dimension Crane had transported him to. Bruce wondered if heroin felt this good. Eventually his mind forced him to pull out of it and it was then he became aware of just how rough the blankets were. _They weren’t down at all!_ The bed creaked woefully as he sat up. Then it hit him. Alfred. Gordan. Batman. No drugs…nothing wrong with his body physically. He had been over and over the day of the gala in his mind ever since he’d woken in this hellhole days ago. _Had nothing been done to him? Nothing dropped in his drink? Smeared in the canapes? Needle slipped under his skin? A sinister creep swinging a pendulum back and forth in an unlit corner?_ He wanted the truth. Nothing more. Just the truth. It appeared Gordan was right…he had cracked. _Just crazy._ The precious tears he kept safe, meant only for his parents’ graves, leaked out of him. He sat, and without making a sound, let the droplets fall. Counting each one. He put his hands around his shoulders and squeezed, gently rocking. He wanted his mother…and despite the criminal acts Gotham was presently devouring in that witch’s rag…he wanted his father too. But most of all, he wanted Alfred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE! I hope you’ve enjoyed reading. I wanted to get this posted, because I think updates might be awhile after this. If you’ve read thus far, I’d love to hear your thoughts. I love John and Bruce and want to try and do them some justice! 
> 
> Anyways – celebrate the best you can and stay safe in 2021! To a good year!
> 
> ❤❤❤


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